


the call of the running tide

by puppyblue



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:51:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 44,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7492662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppyblue/pseuds/puppyblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daud is far more than what he seems. Corvo is starting to get far too used to this sort of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reminisce

When Daud thinks of his mother, the first thing he remembers is her beauty.

Truly, he does not look back often anymore, but some memories remain clear - the curves and colors of her body, sleek and dark and striking, her large eyes luminous even in the dimmest of lights. Her sides had always been warm, even when she’d just returned from fishing in the deeper seas, and, when he was still small enough, he would tuck himself against her just to feel her curl around him in turn.

He remembers her singing next, the songs she’d begun to teach him as soon as he could learn them. There is a lullaby always tucked into the very back of his mind, echoing in low, throbbing purrs and whistles, and he sometimes still wakes up with the sounds on the tip of his tongue.

Her voice had matched her form so well, but personally, he had found her no less lovely outside of her fur.

She had been different on two legs, of course; sharper – harder – her powerful swimming translating to a smooth stride. But her eyes had stayed the same deep, liquid brown, and her hair had always felt like fur when she’d allowed him to comb clumsy fingers through it, no matter how much she let it tangle.

As a child, his thoughts had been blessedly simple: she was his mother, and therefore she was perfect, no matter what she chose to be. And yet, she had always seemed unhappier on two legs – on land.

He himself had learned to swim before he could walk – he remembers kelp forests as nurseries and the waves as a playground. His mother had started him there and showed him the way of his flippers and tail, his whiskers and fangs, until he could mimic her twists and turns in the waves, and take his own fish from the schools. 

Then she’d brought him to land, showed him how to peel off his pelt and stand on new legs. Taught him new words, to fit around his new soft tongue and blunt teeth. And with those words, she’d told him the ways of life on land, the things he’d be expected to do if he wished to pass as human.

The most important thing to remember, the one she’d drilled into his mind over and over until it was instinct, was to guard his pelt.

“Hide it as soon as you leave the ocean. Don’t ever let anyone take it.” She’d told him, again and again. “There are humans that will search for you, and if they find it, they will use it to catch you. And you’ll stay human yourself until you take it back. 

 Even at so young an age, he’d fought down a shiver of anxiety at the thought of never returning to the ocean, and he’d always taken care to hide his fur well.

Still, life on land hadn’t been that difficult. He had stumbled, then walked, and then he’d learned to run and leap and play – not the same playing that he did in the waves, but he had enjoyed it nonetheless. He’d never really understood his mother’s ambivalence whenever she left her fur, or why she even chose to do so if she preferred the ocean anyway.

“The ocean has lots of fish.” He’d reasoned one night, watching her as she ground together herbs and liquids. She’d been making the mixtures that she sold to the human men and women who so furtively whispered requests to her; the powders that she’d sometimes mixed into the drinks of visitors she did not like. “And it has lots of space, and places to hide, and we can go wherever we want. Why don’t we just stay in the water?”

She had smiled at him quietly, placed her mortar and pestle to the side with whatever new concoction she was making still in it, and taken his hands in hers so that he would look at her as she spoke.

“The oceans are not so large anymore, as men travel further. And all the sailors tell stories of our people – how to find us and catch us.” She’d told him, something sad in her eyes. “We must learn to live on land as well, to hide amongst them, where they will not think to look.”

He had not truly understood her urgency, but his mother had been adamant, her face so serious, and he had learned well to listen when she appeared this way.

“You must learn to thrive _here_ , as well as the water.” She had said, reaching up to hold his face in her hands. “Find your feet.”

And so he had. He’d learned the dances of Serkonos and climbed the crumbling walls and rooftops of the cities; tried and tested this second body until it was as comfortable as the first. If pressed for a decision, he might have preferred the waves, preferred swimming and singing to walking and talking, but he’d been easy on land, and able to best any truly-human child that challenged his fitness.

Perhaps he’d done a little too well, in the end.


	2. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hiram Burrows, Corvo decided, was not only a traitor and a coward, but also an utter fool_.

Hiram Burrows, Corvo decided, was not only a traitor and a coward, but also an utter fool. After all, what sort of man decimated a city, betrayed an Empress, and then _recorded his own confession?_

He was thankful for it, of course. The man deserved to suffer for what he’d done – for the lives destroyed, the city in ruins, _Jessamine_ – and the guilty, frantic speech left conveniently in the safe had served very well to begin that punishment. He’d stolen it easily with the announcer’s help and watched with approval as Burrows’ own guards shook him out of the unconsciousness Corvo had left him in before dragging him out of the Tower.

The Spymaster would be getting his own taste of Coldridge now, and Corvo was not so self-controlled as to ignore the satisfaction that thought brought him.

He was back in the man’s chambers again, taking any other recordings he found hidden in different parts of the room. It seemed Burrows had formed a habit of speaking aloud to himself, and he wasn’t willing to leave behind something the Loyalists might be able to use to their advantage later.

Burrows had kept a journal too, carried in a carefully concealed pocket in the man’s inner clothing, as Corvo had discovered when he’d knocked him out and searched him. His hand brushed against it as he tucked the last of the recordings away in his coat and he pulled it out, eyeing it with some wariness. His curiosity won over though, and, with a sigh, he began to flip through it, skimming for anything of interest.

The writing on the pages read very similar to the speech that had just played overhead – heavy with guilt, excuses, and undeserved pride. He rifled through the pages even faster, too disgusted and impatient to read every word. It all looked to be exactly what he'd expected: the rambling of a desperate man, watching his stolen Empire crumble around him, until a word jumped out at him from one of the earlier pages.

_Daud_.

He stopped flipping and, keeping one ear on the hallways outside, began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to finish the next chapter of crow Corvo and my brain goes "What animal could we make Daud?" Cue Selkie!Daud fic no one asked for. *Sighs* Also, why does everyone in Dunwall with something to hide feel the need to record their inner thoughts despite all common sense?
> 
> Story title from John Masefield's "Sea Fever."


	3. Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daud knows that his mother died when he was eight years old._

Daud knows that his mother died when he was eight years old.

He had not known it at the time, of course, had been too young and too worried about other things to think it through. But when he grows older, wiser, and looks back, he has little doubt about what happened that day. He isn't a fool, after all. The signs - the anger on their faces, the blood splattered along their sides, the faint smell of oil and smoke - seem far too clear for any kind of hope.

He hadn’t wanted to go with them at first; had fought and bit and scratched even when they’d slapped him and shook him so hard that his teeth ached.

But then another one of them had come, holding his pelt – he hadn't understood _how_ , he’d taken care to hide it, of course, with his mother’s help – and some instinctual, irresistible panic had frozen his anger and quickened his breath. Their threats had been rather unnecessary after that. He’d known very well what they could do to it, his mother’s stories of fire and knives echoing in his head, and no matter how much he had wanted to fight, he hadn't even been able to make himself try.

They’d told him to come with them, and he’d obeyed.

His lingering innocence in the face of it all somewhat astounds him, later, because he hadn’t discerned their plans right away. He’d taken well to their training, with his quick eyes and quicker hands, but it hadn’t been until they set him against another boy, with orders to fight until one of them died, that he’d realized what they’d been training him for.

The boy had been larger, but also far slower, and Daud had ended the fight with blood on his hands.

He’d stared at those hands in the dark that night, filled with anger rather than whatever guilt he knew he should be feeling, trying to work up the nerve to just _leave_. He’d figured out how two month ago, knew he could escape quite easily, if not for one snag.

The memory of his mother’s warning had haunted his thoughts; without his pelt, he’d stay human.

He hadn’t been worried about the difficulty of living as such - he’d become very good at acting human. It was simply that he’d lost all enjoyment in it. Humanity had become hard hands and hard eyes, first in his captors and then in himself.

He’d still remembered all of his mother’s songs, of course, but he would not have been able to sing them with a human throat. His human self would never have been able to swim as well as his other form, to sink to the darkest depths of the ocean and just revel in the silence or the songs of his whale cousins.

Abandoning his fur would have meant leaving behind half of his own self, the best half, and he’d shied violently away from the thought of never truly feeling the ocean again.

The next morning had come with him still lying there in his bunk, and he’d gritted his teeth, picked up his knives and gone back to work. He’d still hated it; hated it and hated _them_ even more. There had been so many plans for revenge, or escape, or often both together, but it had always circled back to the same thought - his pelt. And no matter how high his resentment had flown, he had never been able to leave it behind.

And so, he’d bowed to their wishes. He’d studied the knife and the sword, the gun and the bow; the same way he’d learned his flippers and fingers. He’d learned, practiced, _killed_ , until he’d gained all the knowledge his captors had to offer.

Until he’d become something beyond what they could control.


	4. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was an odd feeling, hiding in the Tower that used to be his home as he forced himself through the Spymaster’s pompous, long-winded writings._

It was an odd feeling, hiding in the Tower that used to be his home as he forced himself through the Spymaster’s pompous, long-winded writings. Corvo had already dealt with him and thought himself free of the man’s odious presence. And yet, here he was.

The man had clearly kept a close eye on Daud, even years ago when the assassin’s name had not been as prominent. Corvo could understand recording Daud’s movements, of course – any reasonable Spymaster would keep track of a notorious assassin in the area. But Burrows seemed to have stored every rumor of Daud he could find, magical or otherwise, scribbled across the pages in a random collection that seemed more suited to the Abbey’s records for their persecutions.

Burrows seemed consider such a behavior perfectly justifiable. _The Abbey can barely handle the wretches and lunatics they claim as heretics, for all that Campbell insists otherwise. It seems unlikely to me that they have ever caught a true agent of the Outsider, which all accounts hold Daud to be. But heretic or not, he will have secrets as all men do, weaknesses that can be used against him, to bend him to the will of more righteous men. Black magic may be the Abbey’s purview, but secrets are mine._

Secrets to use against him – blackmail, then. Especially for a Spymaster, it seemed a reasonable enough pursuit, but the more he read as he skimmed though the pages, the stranger it all seemed to get. Daud had many odd tales attached to his name, but Burrows suddenly seemed to catch on one in particular.

_At last! I received word from the latest agent – one of Campbell’s, though I hate to admit it. The importance of the news he imparted far outweighs whatever risk Campbell complains of, for he has confirmed that Daud is a shape-changer, a great beast of the water that sheds his skin at will and walks among the unsuspecting men of Dunwall in a guise of humanity. Our man witnessed the act with his own eyes._

_This seemed more an obstacle than a benefit at first, but subsequent reports and my own research suggest that creatures like him are known, at least to the common man, as selkies. By rumor, they are peaceful, alluring, and, under the right circumstances, very easily controlled. If, indeed, the agent has not lead us astray, then this is an invaluable opportunity. While Daud may be defying the first two elements of his nature, he will not be able avoid the third so easily._

Corvo paused, backtracked. His frown deepened as he reread. _Selkies_

Serkonos, during his childhood, had been steeped in the old ways. The Abbey’s teachings still had power there, of course, with the prominence of the Oracular Order, but outside of the schools and the sermons, all the old tales still held their sway. Sailors everywhere liked to talk, and he’d spent plenty of afternoons as a child listening to their stories as they showed him how to tie proper knots.

Selkies had been common enough in the tales, especially as he and the other boys got older. They were the seal folk that shed their animal skins as they left the water, becoming unearthly men and women who would catch the eye of any who saw them.

“Beautiful, those selkie women,” the old sailors would cackle, nudging him and each other with their elbows as they waggled their eyebrows. “Perfect wives and even better lovers. Keep an eye on the shorelines, lad. See if you can catch one for yourself.”

Though they said rather different things to the girls, apparently. A young girl named Alice had told him of it one night, scoffing and tossing her hair in affront as they wandered back into the city proper. The sailors had warned her of selkie men, who were better lovers than spouses, and told her that any sensible young woman would take care along the shoreline unless she wanted to find herself heavy with child by some fey creature, with no marriage in sight.

It seemed there was always one part of the story that stayed true, though.

"If you're looking to keep one," the sailors would whisper, leaning in like they were imparting invaluable wisdom. "you take their sealskin away, and they'll do anything you ask of them. But once you have it, you'd best make sure they never find it again."

Somehow, the creatures had always found their pelts in the end, at least in the stories he’d heard, and it had rarely ended well for anyone involved.

He’d grown out of listening to old folktales, of course, especially as he focused more and more on his swordsmanship. That the Spymaster of Dunwall had put such stock in them, when he should have been focused on more important matters, was yet another sign of strangeness in the man that none of them had seen. 

More words caught his eye as the pages turned, written large and messy, the ink dark from the press of an excited hand.

_We have succeeded._

Something uneasy was stirring in the pit of his stomach, but a creaking floorboard brought his head up. He frantically checked the hallways outside, having become far too focused on the writings. Nothing living shone through the walls, and he turned back to the journal, skimming across the page more quickly as his nerves made his spine prickle.

 _It is, perhaps, a justice,_ he read, _that such a creature should be so easily bridled. A blessing, that his profane powers can be turned back upon him, rendering him docile: useful, given the right commands. And now I have, in my hands, the key._

_Strange, that so heretical an object should show no sign of its contamination, but I would not have known it from a proper animal’s pelt had I not been told. Perhaps it would be wise to follow Campbell’s wishes in this instance and turn it over to his men once Daud has outlived his usefulness._

Corvo unclenched his jaw, forced himself to look away and breathe as he checked the hallways outside once more. Something about Burrows’ writings twisted his gut, but he didn’t care to examine it too closely.

More importantly, it seemed Burrows had found some measure of proof for his story. He’d held the fur of some sort of animal, at least, and presumably he’d forced a confrontation with Daud, one that must have been successful. His assertions of control over the assassin seemed too confident not to have a basis in experience.

So, if Daud was truly the creature they claimed…

Oh, but _really_. Why was he letting himself get drawn into the idea? Just because Burrows wrote something did not mean it was so. Selkies were a _myth_ – stories to teach and frighten children, not for men fully grown.

Then again, some small voice pointed out in his mind, that was what some people claimed about the Outsider, when the Abbey wasn’t near. And Burrows seemed so _certain_. Corvo turned back to the pages he’d just read, searching through more thoroughly, and finally found the passage he wanted.

_The tales do warn to keep their fur close. Yet, keeping it nearby is also usually the cause of its loss, in the end, and Daud has spies everywhere. I do not dare keep it so near my person, but I must have it in easy reach, should Daud need proper motivation._

_Considering this, the crypt might serve very well._

The crypt - the ancestral burial vault that held the bodies and bones of the Empire's rulers. Corvo had been inside of it exactly once, to help lay the body of Emperor Euhorn Kaldwin to rest, and had never been back since. He’d had no reason to, and Gristol-born soldiers had strange, fearful ideas about the dead.

He chewed on his cheek, staring down at the journal in his hands. Then he forced himself to his feet, shaking his head as he tucked the journal into his coat pocket. Burrows could simply be insane, really, considering his actions thus far. There was absolutely no evidence, beyond the man’s own ramblings, to support this outlandish theory.

He _knew_ this. He knew the whole thing was ridiculous. But he just couldn’t shake the feeling…there was some unnameable thing, some instinct, together with his rather unsettled state, that refused to let him be. He knew Dunwall Tower better than most men alive; it wouldn’t be difficult to slip into the crypt before he made his escape.

Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep meaning to post a prompt asking about that Overseer who left the Abbey to get close to Daud...


	5. Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Knife of Dunwall, they call him, and he lives up to it._

He is free, afterwards, when the blood has dried, the screams stop, and he has dragged the information he needs from the tortured lips of the leader. He retrieves his pelt from their hiding place and returns to kill the few men he left alive as backup. Then, he uses their oil lamps to burn the building down.

They had turned him loose before, knowing he would not run, giving him more and more difficult missions to test his training and ingenuity. The consequence of this is that he knows precisely where he is, likely knows the map of Dunwall better than any local. He checks the stashes of coins and weapons he hid away over the years and moves on.

Dunwall is a far cry from Serkonos, in many ways. The weather is murky and cold, the rainfall far more common than sunshine, and the people who live there are light-skinned and dour, distrustful of his foreign face and skittish when he speaks. The streets smell of stone and metal, fish and burning oil, a chilly miasma that clogs his nose.

He dislikes the place on principle. The only thing he is thankful for is that Dunwall is on a river.

The Wrenhaven, they call it, and it is too shallow in most places for him to use without notice, but he can follow it down to the open sea, and does. He stands there and drinks in the sight, kicks off his boots and buries his toes in the sand.

Then he pulls in a breath to taste the salt in the air, and examines his pelt.

He’d known it was undamaged the moment he picked it up – wonders if he would have felt it, somehow, if they’d destroyed it without telling him. It has been years since he held it, though, and he remembers it being appropriately child-sized. He is relieved to see that it has grown with him despite his absence. With his hands stretched above his head, lengths of it still drag on the ground, but he does not take the time to wonder what his full growth might be.

He hides his human clothes and supplies away, before wading out into the ocean and slipping back into himself. The water smells strange, as dark and murky as it looks, but his heart is hammering in his chest and, with a careful, testing flip of his tail, he dives down into its depths.

For a few short days, it feels like coming home.

It feels like a weight has been lifted, like he can finally breathe. He learns the city's currents, the tide, and the best times to swim, and all of it fills him with a quiet delight; some soft, effervescent wonder that makes him feel like a child again.

He _isn’t_ a child anymore, though, and cannot ignore the changes that meet him at every turn. Gristol’s water is polluted. Some parts of the island are better than others, but most of the cities are industrialized, affecting much of the water. It is often unbearable at the shorelines, ash and oil and waste slicking into a noxious mixture that stings the sensitive tissue of his eyes and muzzle if he stays in it too long. 

He swims to the north and south, where fewer men live, and finds that it improves, but only slightly. It is also better farther out in the water, in the deeper ocean, but he is no fish or whale. He needs land to rest on, cannot risk sleeping in the water with such active harbors nearby, and so he cannot stay out there for too long.            

He compromises, tries for a middle distance and comes in to lie on deserted beaches when he wants to rest or sun himself, but food is a problem as well. The fish near the island are dwindling, the schools not nearly as abundant as they should have been – except for the hagfish, and while they keep their distance from him, they are not afraid to turn on him if he chases them, making them dangerous catching. It also becomes a game of chance as to whether the meal will be appetizing. It isn’t so uncommon for him to have a squirming-fresh fish between his fangs only to find that the flesh is revolting, poisoned by some substance that he is afraid to think of.

So, often he finds himself swimming far out and diving deep to find other, less affected fish to hunt. At these times, hunting is a joy as he exerts himself in acrobatics that still come so easily to him, but when he is idle, he cannot help worrying about how long it will last, because everywhere, he finds the ever-present threat of men with their hooks and nets in the water.

As he watches the bones of his less fortunate cousins layer the sea floor, he begins to understand what worried his mother so. 

His luck nearly runs out right off the shores of Dunwall (and of course it is Dunwall. It seems his simmering dislike for the place is not entirely without merit). His memory of how exactly it happened is fuzzy, except for the pain, but he suspects he got careless and surfaced too close to the boats.

It ends with a gaffer hook piercing his tail, lines from a missed harpoon furrowed across his back, and a knife slice across his face that missed his right eye by pure luck. He spends days in a fever and counts himself very lucky when he finally wakes up fully, exhausted, but alive. He lets the wounds start to heal and reluctantly sheds his skin again.

It is nearly painful to leave the water after years of denial, but swimming is still somewhat painful with his injuries, and he needs other ways of sustaining himself. 

He folds his skin up carefully and begins his search for a hiding place. He almost wants to carry it with him wherever he goes, but it would be a liability the moment he got in a fight. He keeps it out of the city, where thieves are far too sharp-eyed, and finds a system of caves near the Financial District instead. He buries it deep in the back of the smallest cavern and thinks it will be enough.

He did attempt more legitimate work, in the beginning, more out of lingering spite for his captors than any particular moral convictions. But work in Dunwall, he finds, is either beyond his expertise, too cheap to be worth the time, or well-paid and correspondingly dangerous. He has little patience for any of it, and his name is already known in certain circles, from his few previous outings during his training. So, when one of the old informants begins to offer him a few small jobs, he takes them.

If he’s going to go for well-paid and dangerous, it will be in the work he prefers.

It doesn’t take long for his name – and word of his skill – to spread. The jobs grow larger, from gang men and shopkeepers to nobles and officials. He despises everything about them – the arrogance, the opulence, the way they run their eyes over him and think they are worthy of _judging_ him. But the coin is the best he’s seen, and he is a businessman. Besides, he often gets to spill noble blood anyway, in the end.

He has more than enough work to keep him busy and coin to keep him comfortable (and fear, as people begin to recognize his face, but this is often more beneficial than harmful, and so he does not mind).

He returns to the caves whenever he desires, takes back to the ocean and revels in the sheer joy of being able to do so, even if the dangers of the water still remain. Often he is tied up with other things, though, or exhausted by the outcome of those activities, so it does not occur as often as he would like, but the frequency is _his_ choice now, and that makes all the difference.

He does not know how long that life might have satisfied him, but the shrine changes everything.

He finds it in the sewers one day as he moves through them, trying to build a map of every passage in his head. He turns a new corner and there it is: purple swathes of fabric and haunting, glimmering lights, copper and wood for an altar and shadows lurking where they should not be. And there is singing.

The song, he discovers as he creeps cautiously forward, comes from a piece of bone on the altar. It is carved and dyed and decorated, but he only has attention for the sounds. It draws and repels him in equal measure – one moment, he can hear the swooping tune of his mother’s songs and the hiss of the ocean waves, but in the next, it is the slice of fishing boats in the water and the last, gasping breath of dying men.

“Pretty, isn’t it, dearie?”

He whips around and skips back, startled, because he hadn’t heard anyone approach and that is odd enough in itself. It becomes even odder when he sees it is an old woman, dressed in rags of timeworn finery. She looks to be blind, but he knows she is not – not entirely, anyway – because she follows his movements as she smiles at him, looking as though he is a child that has learned a new trick.

The back of his neck prickles, and he thinks if he had fur, it would be standing on end.

“It was a gift, from the Outsider. Such a handsome boy, with such lovely eyes, too.” She bustles past him, picking the piece of bone up from her shrine and brushing at it with her fingertips. Then she narrows her strange, milky eyes at him, at his face, at his hands, before she says, “You’re a good lad, too, aren’t you? Here. You can have this one, as a birthday gift. You’ll take good care of it, won’t you?”

He takes the bone when she hands it over, still entranced by the song, but something inside him winds tighter the closer she gets to him. He does not understand. She is small and hunched, delicate bones and a wavering voice. Heretic or not, she should be no threat to him, especially not with eyes like that, opaque and gleaming white –

 _Shark’s eyes_ , some instinct whispers, realizes, and he backs towards the exit rather than turn away from her. She goes back to the shrine, fussing with the curtains, but he hears her calling out as he slips away, “Bring me more bones, dear, and I’ll make you another present!”

He does not bring her more bones. 

He does, however, keep the one he has close. He tucks it into the breast pocket of his coat during the day, but pulls it out to examine at night, flipping it over and over in his fingers. The singing draws him in and it isn’t long before he goes looking for other shrines.

They aren’t particularly difficult to find, now that he is looking. For all the Abbey’s efforts, the Outsider’s influence is still strong, even in Dunwall’s cold, metal city. He finds them in everywhere – the buildings, the streets, the sewers – hidden in dusty, forgotten corners where most wouldn’t think to look.

He gains more bones for his trouble, but it isn’t _enough_ , now. They are drops in the ocean, inconsequential when he can feel the vastness of what lies just beyond them. He had never understood religion, never understood the fanaticism that infected Overseers and heretics alike. But he begins to see how easy it might be to fall into, as his search for shrines takes up more and more of his time.

He…doesn’t know what he’s looking _for_ , exactly, but he knows that to find it, he needs to find the Outsider.

It doesn’t take him long to turn away from Dunwall. They hide their shrines here, with the Abbey’s stronghold so close by, and what few stories they have of the Outsider that aren't from the Abbey's fear mongering sermons can only be found in the minds of Dunwall's true heretics. Daud doesn't particularly want to talk to them, considering the only one he's met.

He knows of other cultures in the Isles who are far less circumspect in their worship. The only trouble is getting there.

He might be able to swim from one island to the next, but he knows the distances between them are likely far greater than they look on the map. It will be tiresome and risky, between the fishermen and the predators and his own lack of experience. He always stayed near the same shores in his childhood, and the seas are far more dangerous now. The ships will be safer and likely much faster. But if he takes the ships, he knows he will have to leave his pelt behind.

It is a liability, always has been, and in such close quarters with men, he cannot risk it. It is too large to safely hide if he carries it with him. Too easy to damage, too easy to lose (too easy for it to be stolen, he knows). If he goes on the ships, he will travel as a man.

For a moment, he hesitates.

But here he is again; feeling tied back somewhere he doesn't want to be, out of necessity, out of fear. It is, technically, his decision, but somehow that only makes the resentment worse. The need to protect his skin has become nearly overwhelming, now that he has lost it once, and the fact that _they_ can still make him afraid, even when he personally killed each and every one of them, is _infuriating_.

He might be held to his instincts, but he will not tie himself down. He has come too far for that. So, he spends a night in his skin for one last swim, and then buries it back deep, preparing himself for the long months ahead.

He leaves on a ship bound for Morley the next morning.

* * *

His mother had told him stories of the Outsider, of course. Oh, he knows the Abbey’s stories and warnings, but he had little use for them when he was a child and even less use for them now. His mother’s stories had been different.

"He made us, and so our hearts belong to him." She would tell him at night, using her words to try and settle him down to sleep. "When men began to cover the lands, he took us from the water and peeled away our fur. He remade what was beneath, so that we could speak to them as we needed and live where we wished, and we were grateful."  

"An' the fish," He would say, familiar with the story,

"He made the fish we eat, and the water we swim in." She would agree with a smile. "He can **be** the fish, if he wants to be. He can be the hunting shark, or the mightiest whale, or the waves against the rocks in the thundering storms.”

"Can he be a selkie too, then?" He would ask, because it always made her tickle his sides.

And she would always answer, "Perhaps."

As he grew older, though, her storytelling had lessened, until he had to plead with her if he ever wanted to hear them. The retellings had grown with him, becoming less an innocent tale for a child and more of a warning.

“We are his.” She would tell him, soft and somber. “Our people are still faithful. But that does not mean we are loved. You could no more expect the ocean to love you, after all.”

He had learned of the nature of the Abby, and what they did to heretics. He had heard, in tiny pieces, of the rituals performed by the people of Pandyssia. He had drawn out tales of the Void, and felt cold in his bones when he touched whale oil lamps.  

"He is everywhere." She told him the final time he asked, oddly distant in her voice and eyes. "Everywhere, and nowhere at all."

Something made him stop asking, after that.

He remembers it all as he travels, tries to keep an open mind. He looks, even when he isn’t at a shrine, keeps his senses open for anything out of the ordinary, even when he has no idea what he expects to find.

He keeps working, even as he searches; honing his craft in every city he visits. There is no shortage of jobs, none beyond his abilities, and they begin to whisper his name in every city he visits. His skills grow as steadily as his reputation, and there comes a point when he no longer needs to ask for work. They start coming to him.

He is learning and growing, in his travels, and it is useful to him, but they not the things he was hoping to learn. The shrines remain empty, and it is endlessly frustrating.

Then, one night after a mission in Dabokva, where he leaves an entire Tyvian noble house slaughtered in their beds behind him for the sake of another house’s power, he falls asleep with the rune beside his head. The noise helps him sleep after days like these, when his mind feels numb and he rubs at his hands until they are raw without realizing (he got paid very well for the job, he reminds himself, but sometimes that is not enough).

He wakes in blue and purple and opalescent silver, with water running wrong and power thick in the air, and he knows without question that this is the Void.

The Outsider, contrary to his mother’s many stories, is not a whale, or a selkie, or the rolling crash of waves on the rocks. He is a boy – a boy with a smile that sits as cold as the deep ocean and ink-black eyes that Daud does not like to look at, because inside there is nothing, and yet _everything_.

He cannot remember his questions, can barely think past the rapid drumming of his heart that insists he is in danger. But he is no prey to be hunted and he will not cower – not before this god, not before anyone. So he stares straight into the Outsider’s eyes to defy his own instincts, bares his teeth in an insolent challenge, and waits to see if the god will speak, or scatter him across the Void like grains of sand for his disrespect.

The Outsider’s smile widens – shows his own teeth in turn. He speaks.

When Daud wakes, the rune beside him has turned to ash and his left hand prickles along new black lines. He can sense the Void humming just within his reach, like an off-center echo of a song lingering in the edge of his hearing.

He is human right now, but he clenches his fist to feel the power burn in his hand and his blood, and he feels _alive_.

**_You work alone, just one small, defiant creature against the might of all your enemies, and yet it is your actions that have brought cities of men to their knees. Your will that changes the flow of history with every decision you make._ **

_**I look forward to seeing you work, Daud.** _

* * *

He continues his travels, even though he has already found what most worshipers spend their lives looking for. Everywhere he goes, he finds more shrines, more runes and more bone charms, and now their songs are in a language he understands. With them, he can slip out of time and across space, can reach beyond himself and see where he shouldn’t. He is faster, stronger - with the Mark adding to his already considerable talents, he is nearly unstoppable. He puts it all to good use as he goes.

He is looking for something else now, though – a suitable place to stay for a while. A place where he can use his new skills; somewhere he might call home.

He finds the waters of Tyvia to be cleaner and colder than any other, but their ships are numerous and vicious, and their land rather inhospitable. Morley is warm, but disgustingly humid, and he does not enjoy his time spent there. The time he spends on the shores of Serkonos is short. He does not know what city it is – except that it is not the one he remembers – but he feels the tightness in his chest and knows he cannot stay.

_**Here you are, traveling the world, and yet always so far away from the others of your kind. Such peaceful creatures, content to live quietly, but you are destined for greater things, aren’t you, Daud?** _

He looks east, towards the looming specter of Pandyssia, and wonders. In the end, though, he turns away. Gristol, it seems, is still his best option.

Dunwall beckons, a familiar place even if he has no fondness for it, but he explores other options first (though he will return there no matter what, to retrieve what he left behind, and the draw grows stronger every day). The other cities prove to be uninteresting, often simply smaller, simpler versions of the capital, and he turns instead to the Academy of Natural Philosophy.

The one – the only – good thing he will say for his captors is that they kept him educated. With little else to do besides their training, reading was one of the best escapes he had. He remembers much of what he read, it seems, because he passes the Academy's entrance examinations with ease and joins their number as winter begins.

He hates it.

Oh, the books are certainly interesting, and he knows he could something learn here, but he isn’t sure he wants to, now. The Academy is restricted; there is a process in place, which all of their studies and experiments follow, _after_ approval from a head philosopher, of course. It makes the whole system feel formulaic, no matter how widespread the subjects are.

Daud is used to uncertainty, thrives in risk, in the unpredictable nature of the ocean. Here, where true enthusiasm is often restrained for propriety’s sake and every hint of wildness is caged up to be studied and catalogued, he begins to chafe almost immediately.  It is a place of learning, but it is philosophical learning; dry and dull. It takes a special kind of person to thrive in such an environment, he thinks, as he considers the philosophers themselves.  

He can be human, but he cannot be _this_.

(And never mind the way they all look at him, the way they check their valuables when he leaves a room. He knows what they whisper, when they think he cannot hear them. He is not the only Serkonan, or the only commoner, but he is one of the few who is both, and he is kept very aware of the fact)

 It comes to a head when he gets drunk with Anton Sokolov one day, and wakes up two days later with a pounding headache, no memory, and a rather dramatic portrait of his own likeness. His memory worries him most of the three, and when Sokolov’s questions start veering into subjects that raise his hackles high, he quits the Academy entirely.

With few options and little desire to keep wandering, it is easiest to fall back on a proven skillset. He needs cities to do his work, needs people, and Dunwall is the largest in Gristol, and the closest. And if he spends nearly two straight weeks in the water upon his return, then that is his business.

His old contacts are still waiting for him and, with all the work he did overseas, his name is very well known among the city’s elite. His services are in constant demand, and he can pick and chose the jobs he wants.

There is a flip side, of course. Nearly _everyone_ knows his name, not just clients, and many are beginning to recognize his appearance as well. There were already wanted posters up when he came to the city and they grow exponentially when he takes up residence there. They cannot catch him, but there are enough wary Watchmen and Overseers in the city proper that he looks to other alternatives for a living space.

He decides to stay in the cave systems near the Financial District, in the end. He hardly needs the shelter a human might, and sleeping so near the ocean is actually soothing.

He picks his first recruits entirely by accident. It happens at night, during one of Dunwall’s lighter rainstorms. He stays out of the ocean during heavier storms, usually, but he also knows that the ships tend to stay at shore during all, but the lightest of rains, and so he takes advantage of those more peaceful moments to swim as he pleases.

It is a surprise, therefore, to see a boat above him in the waves: a small one, the kind individual fishermen use, which makes its presence less offensive, but also more confusing, considering the risk of the storm. He is even more baffled by the figure struggling in the water beneath it, until he gets closer.

One shape resolves into two men – the smaller figure nearly limp in the water, the taller one trying to drag the other back to the surface with clumsy beginner’s strokes. Whatever his swimming ability, it clearly isn’t enough to keep two people afloat, and Daud is not surprised when the swimmer starts to flag, his movements growing more frantic in his panic as they sink ever lower.

Daud should not care, really – he does not know these men. It’s nothing to do with him. The wind and waves from the storm above are fairly mild as Dunwall goes, so their peril is likely a result of their own carelessness or idiocy.

And yet, he finds himself moving closer rather than away. There is something about the swimmer that holds his attention – the man could save himself if he let the other die, and yet he refuses, struggles for them both as the ocean drags them deeper.

It is a loyalty Daud has rarely experienced, and he does not care to watch it drown.

The swimmer wastes precious air when Daud comes up beneath them, what might have been a shout sending a burst of bubbles in front of his face. Daud ignores him and positions himself exactly, letting the still body fold over his back as he swims up. Then, he nudges the failing swimmer, pulling impatiently, but carefully at him with sharp teeth until the man takes the hint and slings an arm over his back as well, grasping against his fur and holding his friend steady. He drags them quickly back up to the surface, aware that they have already been under too long.

It is easy, even ignoring the relatively short distance to the surface. He has known that his sea form is sizeable, that he must have long since reached his full growth, but he has had little opportunity to measure against anything. The drowning man makes it clearer, though, stretched easily across his back, and the swimmer’s added weight is barely noticeable.

He breaches the surface next to the boat, making sure to keep his passenger’s head above water. There is a third man in the boat, he finds, pale and wild-eyed, his knuckles clenched white around the boat’s edge as he scans the waves. He flinches back at Daud’s appearance, until the entire picture registers and then he throws himself forward, dragging the burden from Daud’s back.

Daud cannot see into the boat, but soon enough he hears thumps, then the whooping cough of water-clogged lungs, and he is surprised by his own small sense of relief.

The swimmer surfaces next to him as this occurs, sputtering and shaking water out of his eyes. He does not go straight for the boat, though – he reaches out his hands instead, presses both firmly to Daud’s side, and beneath his fur, his skin shivers instinctively, uncontrollably, at the unfamiliar touch.

He swings his head around, putting them nose to nose and the man stops, eyes wide and dark in the low light, teeth strange and gleaming sharp in his mouth as he gasps for breath. He smells like salt, but also like warmth, and with his hair plastered flat to his head, short and sleek and so nearly like fur, Daud can almost imagine- 

“Thanks.” The swimmer finally says, half-choked, and it breaks the spell. Daud blinks and then the third man is there, reaching down a hand to pull the other into the boat as well.

Daud rests next to the boat for a moment, unsettled for some reason that he can’t quite place. He shakes it off, listens to their voices above him, relief clear in the timbre even when most of the words he catches are curses, and huffs to himself in mild amusement as he prepares to leave.

He cannot help, but startle when the swimmer pokes his head back over the side and locates him. He is even more unpleasantly surprised when the man bluntly asks, loud and clear over the storm, “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to lead us back to land, water-hound?"

The man’s eyes are too serious, too _knowing_ , but he seems exhausted, not threatening, and Daud suddenly remembers that their limited sight will not be able to make out the distant shoreline through the rain and the dark as well as his can. He sighs to himself, but barks an agreement. If he’s going to do this thing, he might as well do it right.

And so, he leads them back to the shore, poking his head up as often as he can so they don’t lose sight of him. He watches them stumble onto the sand with some satisfaction and then considers the affair over.

He does not expect them to track him down the next morning.

He wakes up to three bright-eyed, scruffy young men peering at him with interest from the entrance of his hideout. It is not a pleasant awakening, and he is not much mollified by their panicked squawks when he charges into them.

“Whoa! Wait, stop –!” The tallest of them gets out as the other two scramble back – they are the ones with more sense, clearly. 

The man actually manages to dodge Daud’s first two strikes as he speaks, but the third strike takes his feet out from under him. The voice is vaguely familiar, though, enough to stay Daud’s hand for a moment, but then the other two reenter the fray to help their comrade, and Daud chooses to retreat, circling carefully to keep them all in sight.

They do not press their advantage in numbers, though. The tallest – and the oldest, he thinks – pulls himself off the ground and stands between him and the others, empty hands outstretched. “ _Peace_ , water-hound – we’re not here for trouble. We only want to talk.”

The nickname and the voice together are enough to confirm his suspicions – the men from the boat, looking a little healthier dry and in the sunlight. That they have tracked him down like this, though, placed him as their rescuer even though they never saw his human form…there had been no proof, the night before, but now there can be no doubt that they know **.** He tightens his fingers around his sword, resists the urge to freeze time, slit their throats, _run_.

“What do you want?” His voice drags in his throat, rasping even more than usual. Then, because he needs to know, “How did you find me?”

“By smell.” This from a different man, the only blond-haired one of the three. He taps his nose, a dry smile on his face. “We might only gain _our_ fur during the full moons, but we keep enough of our senses for this. We figured you’d stay near the beaches, and seals do smell rather distinctive.”

He tilts his head as he says it, and Daud catches a glimpse of a sharp canine tooth, a glint of gold in his eyes. More telling, though, is the scent he catches when he takes a moment to actually breathe it in and identify it – damp fur and canine musk, warm and deep and stranger than any wolfhound he’d ever come across.

 _Wolf_ **,** he thinks, and does not question the instinct.

It is a dangerous thing for them to reveal – even the barest of accusations could bring the Abbey down on their heads. So it is a calculated vulnerability, a secret revealed to put him more at ease with their knowledge of his own. That he now has some of the same leverage over them helps a little, and the shock of it lessens his ire even more, but he still does not know what they want.

“Well, we owe you.” The smallest one tells him earnestly when he asks, bouncing on his toes. “So we wanted to see if we could help you with anything.”

“I don’t need your help.” Daud snarls, ignoring the twinge in his chest that reminds him he hasn’t spoken to anyone except his informants in…weeks, at least. “ _Leave_ **.** ”

He doesn’t kill them, in the end. It is foolish, considering what they know, and he isn’t quite sure why he doesn’t. Perhaps because they are the first beings like him he has ever found in Dunwall. He finally does get them to leave, that day, but they are not as intimidated as they should be, clearly, because they keep coming _back_.

It is the littlest one, Dodge, who comes most often, as the one with the greatest amount of free time. He always brings some small offering of food and an inane amount of chatter, and follows Daud across the rooftops with surprising skill when he is allowed. He is strange, even considering his youth. He flinches and ducks low when Daud snarls at him, runs when Daud deigns to chase him, but he always bounces back again as soon as Daud softens even a little, with a sheepish grin and unbruised feelings.

“Oh, my brothers do that all the time, when they think I’m being obnoxious.” He says cheerfully when Daud finally asks about it. “What, is that not how your people argue?”

He was the one that nearly drowned, Daud learns, the one the assassin carried across his back. The man – the boy, really – admitted to hitting his head and falling overboard, in the slippery, rain-drenched boat. With this on top of rather poor swimming skills, he hadn’t been able to make his way back. He learns next that Thomas was the brother who had stayed above in the boat, as the one with the most experience handling it, and Rulfio, the best swimmer of the three, was the one that had followed Dodge into the water.

He comes to learn a lot more than that as the days pass, actually. Rulfio and Thomas often come to visit as well, though not so much as their youngest brother; they work mercenary jobs in the city, they reveal with little enthusiasm. Daud, when he starts to become resigned to their presence, takes that to mean they will make passable sparring partners.

Passable is pushing it, as it turns out, and he spends weeks whipping them into proper form. They take the criticism and bruises with equanimity and soon the matches become less of a lesson and more of an actual fight.

Matches start to stretch on into meals, days into nights around small fires in the back of the caves. They always bring him food and he begins to wonder if there is some instinct driving the act, as he does not think they have much to spare by the sharp edges of their bones. He starts going out into the deeper seas when he has the time, bringing back eels and rockfish that haven’t been touched by the dirtier waters.

If he catches enough fish that there is often enough for them to take home, well, he does need to keep his hunting skills sharp.

They talk to him easily, openly. He learns about their lives before Dunwall, their youth in Samara. He learns about wolves – werewolves – about the packs hiding in Tyvia’s cities during the day and hunting across the frozen tundra by night. He starts bringing them the Tyvian books he hears them speak of when he finds them in noble houses, not entirely sure why he bothers. They start bringing him runes in return, with furtive glances and sly smiles.

He hears the stories their mother used to tell them, about their own people, but also about his. Their stories paint a rather more docile, helpless picture than he prefers, but some of it matches his mother’s stories, and it is interesting to hear another perspective.

“Water-hounds, she always called you,” Rulfio tells him, teasing, and continues to use it as a nickname even when Daud protests, “since your people bark and sing, like we do. We could be cousins, of a sort, if you think about it.”

And he learns that Dodge is right – they are a family that is quick to anger and quick to forgive, and they bear many mannerisms of their furred counterparts. They snarl and tumble together in the dirt, sometimes in anger and sometimes in play. Just as quickly, they come together, showing fondness through light swats and dozing together in a heavy pile.

The older two, more confident in themselves and not particularly intimidated by him, do their best to drag him in whenever he lets them. They prod him and pull him into wrestling matches when he is irritable or anxious, and nudge up against him in careful affection when they think him forbearing enough.

 _Wolves_ , Daud snorts to himself whenever they act more ridiculous than usual, and ignores the small part of him that begins to listen for familiar footsteps when he is alone.

He does not _need_ company – he is used to being alone now – but they sneak slowly in past his wary ambivalence and make themselves at home. He steps back whenever his thoughts start turning too fond, pushes them away when they get too forward, but they give him space when he needs it, never seeming offended by his moods, and somehow he always ends up right back in the middle of them.

His resolve finally breaks when he wakes in the middle of the night to yowls and yips outside the cave and dark shapes gamboling about in the light of the full moon. Wolves are extinct on Gristol now, but he recognizes their shapes from books; the wide ears, the pointed snouts, the shaggy pelts.

He knows from the brothers that the common tales are exaggerated, that their self-control is not so reduced as to make them attack him without provocation, even if they are rather dangerous. So, he joins them outside, avoids their occasional scuffles, and follows them as they run, once they invite him along with nudges and eager lunges.

He races them across the beaches and into the outskirts of the city, sometimes leading, sometimes chasing. He has to use his powers to keep up, and though he knows he will be exhausted when they are through, it feels well worth it. His legs burn, his lungs burn, his heart thunders in his chest and through it all there is a laugh rasping in his throat, a counterpoint to the excited howls his companions sometimes stop to let free.

Running so near the city is dangerous though, between the Overseers and the Watch, both raised on the Abbey’s warning tales. So, they make their way back to the beaches and he invites them into his domain instead, dons his own fur and takes to the water. They are still not the best of swimmers, but they follow him as gamely as they can, pouncing into chest high waves, paddling when they get the courage to go farther and occasionally retreating to hide on the shore whenever boats got too close.  His presence keeps the hagfish away from their toes, and by the end of the night even Dodge, the wariest of the three in the water, has made some tentative excursions away from the shore.

They tear into the fish he brings them with abandon, insist on cleaning his whiskers for him once he has eaten, and when he drags himself up the shoreline in the early hours of the morning, they curl around him in the caves to sleep as one sopping, panting pile of fur.

He’s never realistically hoped to have a pod of his own, but he’d still thought of it. And, while this isn’t quite what he ever imagined, he does not think he wants to let it go. So he doesn’t.

The bond is an accident as well, a facet of the Mark that he had not been aware of before and still does not really understand. But once he decides to keep the wolves, the runes they brought him suddenly have a use, and he realizes he can _share_ **.** All it takes is a touch, a touch and intent, and then they all stare for a few moments at the faint, distorted Mark on the back of Rulfio’s hand.

“I suppose that means I’m stuck with you,” Daud sighs, and tries to feel more disgruntled about it.

“ _Excellent_.” Rulfio says, and grins.

With these men so clearly determined to stand at his back, he gives in and teaches them. They catch on quickly to the Outsider’s powers, and soon they ask to join in his work. They begin to take jobs of their own, the smaller ones he hadn’t had time for on his own. A clan of occult assassins, even a small one, catches attention very quickly, of course. The Abbey is furious, the warring nobles delighted, and the four of them keep very busy indeed.

It’s a little startling if he thinks about it, actually. He’s never kept track of how many men he’s killed, but with all of it now contained within one city, and subordinates working to help him, it is harder to remain ignorant of the growing death toll. But it doesn’t matter – they are nobles, most of them, and bring it on themselves. _The Knife of Dunwall_ , they call him, and he lives up to it. 

_**They wanted to make you into a weapon. Perhaps they succeeded, but they never considered how that weapon might be turned against them. And now, even years after you took your revenge, the anger in you still burns so brightly. How much more blood will you spill before that fire is quenched?** _

It doesn’t matter, though. It’s work, he’s good at what he does, and he enjoys teaching his new men the same skills.

He notices when the Outsider stops appearing, of course. It rankles, but his powers remain, and he certainly doesn’t _need_ the verbose god following his every move. Besides, he most definitely isn’t alone, anymore.

He doesn’t mean to gather more men, but the brothers are even more inclined towards sympathy than he is. Plus, now that he’s done it once, it is harder to resist getting involved when he sees opportunities. Over time, three men become six, become twelve, and soon his small hideout isn’t big enough anymore. They all keep their eyes open for a suitable location, but thankfully they don’t have to search for long.

One evening, the river barrier breaks, and the Wrenhaven claims Dunwall’s Financial District in a rush of chaotic destruction.

The Flooded District, as the rest of the city now calls it, is perfect for their purposes. The Greaves Refinery provides coats thick enough to act as armor and masks to hide their identities, but Daud eventually decides that their best option is the Chamber of Commerce. It is larger, easier to defend, and more suitable for habitation, and none of his men argue the choice.

It’s still old and worn down, as are the buildings around it, but it is suitable shelter, and still close to the open water. Taken altogether, the place could house a small army. He moves there, with his group of men, and slowly that army begins to form.

He recruits many of them himself, committed to the process now, while others take initiative and manage to follow him or one of the others back to the base. Still he thinks that the wolves must have spread the word somewhere, because it seems as though he gains more than his fair share of men who are…other.

There are Misha and Aeolos, who have feathers under their hair and claws that slice through their gloves when they stop filing them down. There’s Bertram, who never shows his teeth when he smiles and only works night missions. Galia does not sing where any of her comrades can hear her, out of courtesy, and Scott can keep the fires going high even when all the wood they have is wet. He loses six of his men for a few days every full moon – more, when the other Whalers get used to the idea and join in the monthly hunts – though he is certain Rulfio and his brothers are still the only wolves. He could probably guess what the other men’s forms are by their smell, but he does not ask. They will tell him when they are ready.

Then there are the ones he cannot identify, such as Quinn, who always eats half the coins he pays her, and Yuri, who seems human, but does not blink, and smiles in such a way that Daud keeps a wary eye on him for the first few weeks. But they fall in line just as well as the others, and so they are welcome.

It is a surprising relief to find others like himself here, but the majority of the men are still human, only human. They take to the Mark just as well, and they are usually at no significant disadvantage, though, so it hardly matters. Under his tutelage, his men come together as a cohesive whole; the human among them keep the secrets of their otherworldly siblings, and receive loyalty and aid in return.

Billie Lurk is human and she outshines them all.

Rulfio, Thomas, and Dodge were first, and are now the most experienced, so he brings them above the others and names them lieutenants, of a sort. The best among the newcomers join those ranks, until he has enough of them to actively lead whole segments of the small horde he has somehow amassed.

They make a home of their flooded, destroyed base. They build catwalks and bridges across the rooftops as they figure out the best paths to take. They patrol the outer areas, search through the abandoned buildings, and set up barriers against attacks. They entrench themselves deep in the heart of the District, and it is clear they are there to stay. Daud hears the whispers in the back alleys – _the Whalers -_ and the name suits well enough.

He finds such a permanent location odd, at first. He is used to wandering, to making do with whatever bolt hole he finds along the way. But, as the days-months-years begin to pass, he settles in along with them and watches them grow, watches the Whalers flourish into one of the most dangerous gangs Dunwall has ever seen

There is only one major problem that trips him up in the beginning, really. He stays human for months after they settle in, too tense around such a crowd of people to risk getting caught. He imagines just telling some of the more trustworthy men and still recoils at the thought. His skin makes him vulnerable (always a liability, one he will never be able to cut away entirely and, _oh_ , does that eat at him) and in a group such as this, he knows secrets will spread quickly.

Eventually, though, his instincts calm, and, if only to quiet Rulfio’s incessant hints, he begins to swim again. He does not risk it often, as each time leaves him open to exposure, and he knows too many disappearances will make the Whalers edgy. He does not want the bother of kicking them back into line. Still, he lets the wolf brothers drag him down to the water for a few hours every month or two, as long as one of his lieutenants is there to mind the base in his absence.

He does not join them during the full moons anymore, not when when he has work to manage and so many of the other Whalers join in the runs on those nights, but he finds the sense of kinship does not lessen even when they are human. They perch on the cliffs, keeping a careful eye out for intruders and ships, or they transverse out onto the rocks that litter the shallows. They make a game of it, if he lets them, and try to spot him whenever he surfaces, or catch his tail if he swims up to splash them.

It’s rather odd behavior, really, but he cannot bring himself to truly mind it.

With those three, at least, he has a small amount of leeway in his disappearances. They provide excuses and keep the peace when he leaves, but he also knows they have no desire to usurp him and lead the Whalers themselves, which makes them safe.

He can tell that some among his men, the ones who aren’t quite human, have their suspicions, but he isn’t too worried about them. He knows they share that instinctive sense of _otherness_ that he feels when he looks at them, but with that there also comes a kinship, an understanding. There are so few of them, in this world seething with humans, and they cannot afford to turn on each other.

He also knows that this sympathy, when the others are so open in their differences, is the basis of rumors among the human portion of his men; the cause of a general consensus that he might be _more_ than human. He does not really mind, as it does not seem to negatively affect their perception of him. Then again, he is already a heretic – that he could be more isn’t that startling for them. He lets them talk and only deals with the very small few who start getting too forward in their curiosity.

He still makes sure none of them are anywhere nearby whenever he carries or hides his pelt, of course. He finds a spot in his room at the base – having made a fortune off of objects kept in “hidden” safes and rooms, he opts for a different sort of hiding place. Heavy blankets are a must, for all of his men, considering Dunwall’s weather and the general condition of their base. He slits open the loose cover of one of his, folds his pelt lengthwise, and slides it in over the cotton stuffing inside. Then he pulls the ragged edges of the cover back together with quick stitches and slides the entire thing into the middle of his pile of bedclothes.

It is not the most convenient solution, as he is not particularly deft at sewing, and perhaps it is dangerous, to keep it so close. But when he left it far away in the caves, there was always a niggling worry in the back of his head. It is far easier to check on it, this way, and he cannot help, but feel that his chambers are quickly becoming one of the best-protected places in Dunwall.

The general sentries throughout the base would be enough to stop most men. Beyond that, thought, at some point some of his men had taken to patrolling the areas outside his chambers in addition to the base itself, with a rotation worked out that he did not order. He wonders if it should worry him, but the ringleaders are men he trusts, at least enough for this, and his suspicions die in the face of their earnest protectiveness.

He does not quite understand their loyalty – sometimes wonders if the bond gives more than just power – but he does learn to appreciate it. They all learn each other as the years pass, and he wouldn’t call them family aloud, but he sometimes finds himself thinking it in the depths of his mind.

He should have known better, really. Should never have gotten so comfortable, so complacent.

He hears the whispers of plague when they start, watches as they move from rumor to fact, and requires all of his Whalers to keep their masks on until it becomes clear that they are almost all immune. The nobles grow more vicious with the threat of danger, and he takes their money easily, more than happy to watch them turn on each other.

The plague is the beginning of a new era for Dunwall. The city grows wilder, darker, as the sickness begins to eat into the heart of it. He sees men driven mad by plague wandering the streets, meets and deals with witches grown bold in the Abbey’s distraction. He takes advantage of the chaos, recruits those desperate survivors that have nowhere else to go, and they are thankful for it. He does not consider how his enemies might take advantage of such a thing. Had not thought them that cunning, or willing to debase themselves. 

There have always been a small few recruits who could not take the Mark. He keeps them anyway, if they show an aptitude in the work or have a useful skill, since he is still uncertain of how, exactly, the bond works. He has suspicions, but no facts, and so he treats them as he would the rest of his men.

Then there comes a day when he leaves the base for a while. He has enough men that he doesn’t need to go on missions, technically, but he isn’t so old that he doesn’t enjoy the rush it brings (and he refuses to send his men on the riskier missions without him, on principle). The target is outside the city, two days travel altogether without the aid of the railways. The mission goes smoothly, though, and they make it back to Dunwall tired and triumphant.

But when he arrives at the base with his group, Billie and three of his lieutenants meet him before he even gets inside. He knows it won’t be good before they say anything.

The men that stood guard around his chambers had been found unconscious – a slow-acting drug in their drinks, their physician had reported, apparently familiar with the effects. The chambers themselves had been clearly ransacked. None of the sentries saw an intruder, Billie tells him, but one of their own is missing, and they are all quiet and grim at the realization of betrayal.

Coleman. A newer recruit – though not the newest – and one of the few who had not been able to take the Mark. So, Daud cannot summon him, cannot track him through the bond, and he curses himself to the Void for his own blind arrogance. His men do not say if anything is missing, but he doesn’t need them to. He transverses to the room with a gaping pit of dread in his gut, threatening to swallow him whole. He’d thought he was finally beyond this now, he’d thought…

He finds his hiding spot open and empty. Placed on the bed, in the space left behind, there is a note. A summons, from the Royal Spymaster of Dunwall Tower, and Daud laughs until he feels sick because that is better than crying, snarling, _screaming_.

He should have known better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddammit Daud, short chapters please!!! (I am incapable of properly editing myself, I think)
> 
> I probably shouldn't have started writing this while I was still working on Eyes Turned Skyward, because now I bounce back and forth between them and so neither one gets written as fast as they could be. Oh well. Also, Daud's timeline was altered a bit here, since the one I found online was a little...odd.


	6. in waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was a surge in his chest, remembered grief dragging across new wounds._

The inside of the crypt looked exactly as Corvo remembered it.

He peered into the dim hall ahead of him, making sure to pull the door shut behind him as he entered. He’d had to creep carefully around the rest of the Tower guards to get there, but they were preoccupied now – and with Burrows arrested, they likely saw little need to hold seriously to their posts. The man had been in charge of their pay, after all.

The air inside was chilled, stinging in his nose and heavy with the scent of damp stone and dirt; he prepared an oil lamp from the supplies near the door and carried it with him. His skin prickled as he walked, but it was only from the cold, not any fearful notions of the dead around him. He'd heard the stories the watchmen told each other here, furtively hushed, as though the dead were listening and had nothing better to do than to torment the living.

Back in Serkonos, his own father had been treated according to the old rites, despite the Abbey’s increasing pressure to do otherwise. His mother had lit a lantern in the window for the first year after his death, to help him find his way if he was lost in the Void, and had always set him a place at the table during name days and celebrations, out of respect and remembrance.

His small family had always come together on the winter solstice too, when the nights were longest and passed better with company, to remember loved ones lost through memories and stories. It had almost been a celebration, with food and laughter, and sometimes tears, and the tales grew wilder the longer the drinks flowed.

Corvo had treasured those nights, as a child. He did not have many memories of his own to pull from, young as he had been when his father passed, but he had heard stories of him so many times that he almost felt as though he had lived through those tales. It had seemed a great comfort, back in those days, to have that connection.

Things were different on Gristol – harsher, under the watchful eye of the Abbey. Drawing the attention of the dead was discouraged, and the Void was a place of terror and pain. It was one of the aspects of Gristol in which he much preferred the attitude of his homeland. 

He’d had years to get used to it all, thankfully, before Euhorn Kaldwin had died. The rites and attitudes had seemed so foreign, so cold, but he had been able to keep his disquiet to himself and stand tall behind Jessamine when she needed him. And Jessamine had stayed through it all, of course, patient and regal and far too young. She’d seen her father’s body through every step until it was ensconced in the crypt with Dunwall’s other rulers, and she’d held back her grief until she was safe in her rooms, where he’d held her as she’d sobbed.

There was a surge in his chest, remembered grief dragging across new wounds. Jessamine’s body was likely in the crypt, as benefited an empress, but he couldn’t bring himself to search for it. The Heart was a heavy weight in his coat pocket, pulsating slowly like some diseased thing.

Corvo’s skin crawled at the reminder – the Heart was something… _other_ , a twisted thing of grief and memories. He thought of Jessamine’s spirit, bright and indomitable, forever trapped in an undying cage of flesh, and his stomach turned over. The Abbey’s stories of the Outsider devouring immoral souls seemed kinder in comparison.

No matter how much Corvo missed hearing Jessamine’s voice, he touched the Heart as little as he could.

A flicker made his twitch – it was only shadows cast by his lamp, but he pulled himself out of his memories and blinked open his Dark Vision. The night was far from over, and he couldn’t afford distraction now.

He padded past coffins and side rooms, glancing over the bones of dead monarchs with little interest. Most of the crypt showed nothing of interest, and he considered simply abandoning the pursuit. But he was already halfway across the small crypt – he might as well see the impulse through.

He was thankful for the decision when, as he reached the very back of the chamber where the oldest bones rested, he glanced into the last side room and stopped. There was one flagstone that shone in his vision, the way the lamp on the wall had when it led him to Jessamine’s private room. He glanced around the room carefully, before he crept over and kneeled down, laying the lamp nearby so that he could examine it more closely.

It took a few moments to find the mechanism, but finally his fingers pressed into a chip the corner of the stone and the whole thing clicked upwards, letting him grasp the edges and pull it out. It was actually far thinner than the stones around it, he saw as he looked in the opening left behind. That left plenty of room to hide things underneath.

Inside the cubby left behind, Burrows had hidden more than a few secrets. There were books with blank covers, which Corvo pulled out and glanced over, suspecting they might be more journals, as well as several large bars of gold, which he pocketed.

And underneath it all, revealed piece by piece, was a thick, folded animal pelt.

Corvo froze as the lamplight gleamed on dark fur. For all that he'd come here, he'd honestly expected to find nothing for his trouble. The air felt heavy around him as he stared down at it, and he found he was unconsciously holding his breath.

Corvo forced himself to move, to take out the last of the books, and then pulled his hands back. The fur itself looked very short, as he knew was common for seals, and the piece he could see looked shiny and smooth, except where the other objects had ruffled it up. The entire pelt was clearly layered several times over, hinting at a far greater length than the small space allowed.

He eyed it cautiously, uncertainly, wary of picking it up, but Burrows’ writings had labeled the feel as no different than any other animal fur. He sighed, reaching down into the hole until his fingers touched something soft and cold.

It was a shock, harsh and sudden, like a punch to the nose.

His heart stuttered and jumped, rushing in his ears as an unpleasant taste flooded his tongue, and he had to forcefully pull his next breath in as his lungs froze up. But it wasn’t blood in his mouth, he realized after a moment. It was salt, the heavy, cloying tang of seawater that always made him want to gag whenever he accidentally pulled in a mouthful. It could easily be the hiss of waves in his ears, not his own pulse, and each gulp of air he took felt like that glorious first breath after hiding underwater for just slightly too long.

Something _pulsed_ under his hand, like the swell of ribs or the thump of a heartbeat, like he had placed his hand on something _alive_ –

He snatched his hand back to his side, gasping as goosebumps crawled up his spine. The chill crept into his veins, raising his hackles high as he stared down at the innocuous-looking fur, very nearly horrified. 

All right. Perhaps Burrows wasn’t insane after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see any mistakes, please let me know.


	7. step back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Perhaps, in hindsight, he should have seen it coming._

Hiram Burrows is clever. Not clever enough, of course – he is arrogant and far too comfortable in his own power. He will slip, as all such men do, and Daud will be there when he does. But for the present time, there is no clear way out of the trap.

He’d thought…well, he’s not really sure what he'd thought. Maybe that he’d finally gone beyond the control of grasping, greedy men. That he’d been safe, untouchable in his base with trusted men around him. Or maybe he’d thought that he would be able to resist the next time it happened, that he’d have the strength to walk away and leave his skin behind, for the sake of his own freedom and dignity.

Clearly, he’d been wrong on all accounts.

He manages to wrangle pay out of the situation. As he tells Burrows, whatever his personal circumstances, his men will not – and should not – risk their lives for no reward, and the bigger jobs require more than one person. Burrows capitulates reluctantly, but reminds Daud, in his high, oily voice, that he knows where the Whalers’ reside now. And that, unless Daud wants a visit from the Overseers, he had best keep his men under control.

Daud takes that to mean the High Overseer is likely informed of the circumstances surrounding their...arrangement, as well. He grits his teeth against his rising nausea and acknowledges the warning. What makes it worse is that it is an unnecessary threat. He thinks of his pelt, burned or torn, lost forever, and he knows he will not do anything to jeopardize it.

He despises himself for it.

Burrows is, thankfully, not particularly inventive. He gives Daud targets – men he wants dead or kidnapped, items he wants stolen – and does not ask anything more. The relief of that in no way diminishes Daud’s disgust, and he feels something almost like guilt the first time he kills a noble on the Spymaster’s word.

It’s ridiculous and he knows it. He would have killed without many qualms if Burrows had simply hired him like any other man. But perhaps it comes down to choice, again.

Most of his men don’t notice a difference – coin is coin, and they don’t care where the jobs come from. He catches Rulfio and Thomas watching him with concern, though, and knows they spend their free days investigating quietly - hunting down far-fetched leads, trying in any way they can to help him. It makes his chest hurt, and he does them the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

So the months pass and Burrows’ interference starts to become routine, conventional – just another job, another client, even as Daud sends his men after every hint of weakness Burrows shows, searching for a way in.

No way reveals itself; neither the informants they bribe, nor the messages they intercept have anything useful to give. Burrows conceals his secrets well, as would be expected. Daud tries to remain patient, even as he begins to regret choosing a base so close to the ocean. It feels like a taunt, now. 

He waits too long. He does not know what he could have done differently, when he looks back, but he thinks there must have been _something._ As the city slowly darkens, Burrows spirals down with it. The man becomes fiercely paranoid, which only makes Daud’s investigations more difficult, and the jobs quickly rise in frequency.

Perhaps, in hindsight, he should have seen it coming.

And he knows, he _knows_ when Burrows gives him the order that he will regret following it. He knows it will be dangerous, so dangerous, in more ways than one. He spends whole days pacing, thinking, near tearing himself in half, but in the end…she is just another noble. He has fought for too long to forsake himself for one of _them_. (Or that is what he tells himself, firm and decisive even when he feels anything but.)

Noble blood, only noble blood. He knows how to use his distaste for their actions to justify his own, and he has been able to tell himself, these last few months, that the consequences of his deeds are Burrows’ responsibility, not his.

And then, suddenly, he can’t anymore.

When his sword is buried to the hilt in Jessamine Kaldwin’s stomach, the screams of her daughter echoing in his ears as his men rip her away from her home. When her bodyguard is dragged away, shell-shocked and horrified, to face torture for a crime he had no part in. When the city, already so weakened, quickly begins to crumble, scream, _die_ around him.

That is when he knows he has gone too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice anything wrong, please let me know!


	8. fool's gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was growing paranoid, he acknowledged wryly, but it was hard to stop._

Corvo reached back in and pulled the sealskin out of the hole, holding it as gingerly as he might have a wounded wolfhound pup. He had to grit his teeth against the sensations, but now that he was expecting it, they were bearable enough and the thing itself did not seem actively dangerous.

On an impulse, he gripped the edges and let it fall out to its full length.

The size struck him first. It was huge, larger all around than most men, or perhaps even two men together; he could have wrapped it around himself quite easily with room to spare. It was also, he decided – with some confusion and a small amount of awe – quite beautiful.

If pressed to label the color, he would have called it grey, but that hardly encompassed the details. The fur shaded to a near black in the center, while the color grew softer and more varied toward the edges. He drew careful fingers over a dappled area, watching as the lamplight drew out gleams of pure ivory and silver.

With it fully unfolded, he could see some imperfections where scars rippled the fur and the edges drew ragged, but he couldn't say that it detracted from the splendor of it at all.

Corvo’s head was starting to swim a little – though whether from the fur’s continuing sensations or the shock of the situation, he couldn’t really say. He bundled the pelt back up as carefully as he knew how, some half-formed plan building in his mind, spurred by unwanted, dangerous sympathy.

If what he held was a real selkie’s pelt, an actual selkie from the tales of old, then that meant Daud had been something of a prisoner in this as well.

He couldn’t be entirely sure, of course; he didn’t know how much of the old stories were true, hadn’t thought _any_ part of it was true before now. And it had still been Daud’s hands holding the sword, Corvo _knew_ that, but…Coldridge had changed him, in more ways than one. The thought of anyone, especially Burrows, having such total control over another person didn’t sit well with him at all.

Even folded, the skin was too large and cumbersome to carry in his arms during his escape, but he certainly wasn't about to leave it behind. After a few moments of thought, and then another of fierce internal debate, he loosened his coat and armor, wrapping the fur lengthwise in layers around his torso, over his shirt.

He was…a bit wary of folding it around himself, for several reasons, but his shirt kept the pelt away from his skin, dulling its strange power, and nothing else untoward occurred. He pulled his coat back into place and was almost immediately too hot, but his fitted armor kept the fur from slipping.

It would have to do.

The trip back to the waterlock was quick and painless. Once there, he climbed down the steep rocks on the outside of the building rather than forcing himself to squeeze through the claustrophobic interior and jump in the water. Climbing the cliffs would be impossible without Blinking, he knew, but he marked the easiest paths all the same. He was hardly the only witch out there, after all.

Samuel was waiting for him at the bottom, patient and sturdy as ever. He didn’t bat an eye when Corvo Blinked into the boat – such things never seemed to faze him. “Is it all done? You ready to go back to the Hound Pits?”

Corvo murmured something he hoped sounded affirmative and dropped down to sit, breathing in the sea air and slowly relaxing as they quickly traveled away. A one-man assault against the Tower would have seemed impossible less than a year ago – he was still somewhat in disbelief, even without considering what else he’d found there.

Samuel’s boat was usually a good place to think, removed as it was from the planning and small politics of the Hound Pits. Corvo’s mind felt too full to think properly, though, thoughts and plans and _emotions_ whirling together and conflicting with each other.

He stared down at the water below as he struggled to sort it all out, glancing over the shimmering reflection of the cloudy night sky. Seals were not native to Dunwall, he knew – they preferred the shores of Tyvia and the beaches of Serkonos – but he imagined he could see murky shapes darting beneath the water, twisting sinuously.

He frowned to himself and dipped a hand in the river, slicing lines in the rippling surface. What would it be like, to transform and take to the waters as a selkie could? Not like possession, of that he was sure. But would it hurt, to twist a body into such a different shape? Or was it as simple as slipping on another skin and sinking deep?

The rushing noise of the water was strong in his ears, even over the roar of the boat, pulsing against the heartbeat in his fingertips, and he tilted his head in further to listen –

“Corvo?” Samuel’s voice broke the silence, shaking him out of his stupor. Corvo jerked upright, drawing in a deep, startled breath – he hadn’t realized he’d been leaning so close to the water. The boatman shot him an odd look, but only said, “Be careful. Don’t want you falling overboard.”

Corvo spent the rest of the trip back bolt upright, digging his fingernails into his palm to distract himself as the sealskin thrummed around his ribs.

It was a relief to follow a cheerful Emily into the Hound Pits; the air was cool inside, sharp with the smell of drinks and food, and the others were cheering, welcoming him in with a swell of joyful, relieved noise. He breathed it all in and let the last of his tension fall from his shoulders.

Havelock and Pendleton were elated; Martin, more quietly pleased. The most effusive of the three, Pendleton shoved a drink into his hands, his small eyes very bright. “Damn me, he’s done it. Word is spreading all over the city – the tyranny is over. By this time tomorrow, Emily will be on the throne.”

Corvo hummed and shifted subtly away from his enthusiastic movements, only listening with half an ear as they offered vague plans for the following days. They had never asked his opinion when they plotted anyway, and he’d stay close to Emily no matter what the plan was. As long as they got Emily safely to the throne, he didn’t much care how they did it.

He was dragged back to attention as Havelock began what was unmistakably a toast, and he raised his glass ceremoniously with the rest of them as Emily glanced up and smiled at him. He swallowed most of it in one gulp, grateful for the drink after a night of swallowing elixirs. The whiskey was not the most pleasant he’d ever tasted, but considering what the Heart had whispered to him about the pub’s practices, he supposed it could have been worse.

“You speak less and do more than any man I have known,” Pendleton confided easily to him as they finished their toast. “I swear I’ll help you find the man who struck down the Empress. Your life will be changed, very soon.”

_The man who struck down the Empress._

Corvo stiffened for a split second. Then he nodded at Pendleton, finished his drink, and laid the glass down on the bar. As soon as he could, he drew away from the small group of Loyalist leaders, wandering over to Emily’s table to look at her drawings, and to think.

He should tell them about what he’d found – should hand over the pelt and the journal both, really. They would know how to make the best use of the information from Burrows – there was no doubt blackmail aplenty. As for the pelt, well…there were so many obvious advantages to leashing Daud, and if they could count on controlling his horde of Whalers as well…

There was a nagging, reluctant itch at the back of his mind though. Corvo only had a few stories to go on, with no way of discerning which parts were truth – tales about the Outsider depended on who was talking, after all. But if they _were_ accurate, even a little, he could learn quite a bit simply by reading between the lines.

He didn’t much like any of it.

The selkies had _always_ followed their captor into servitude – even when forced to marry and bear children, trapped on land for years and decades on end, none of them ever simply left. Not until their captor slipped up and then they were _gone_ , flying back to the sea and their seal selves, regardless of what they were leaving behind them.

Perhaps it was instinct, or some irresistible witchcraft that came with their breed, but walking away didn’t look like an option. It was as though their sealskins were everything to them – more important than freedom, more important than choice, and Corvo stared at Emily drawing peacefully at the table, his throat drawing tight.

He had the horrible suspicion that what he held beneath his coat was _essential_ to Daud, in ways he was only beginning to understand.

So, what did that make him, if he kept the pelt and used it? If the man had acted under Burrows’ control, could he really condemn Daud to further slavery – and worse, keep him separate from what was, fundamentally, such an important part of his own self?

He’d done worse to other targets already, but so many things about the situation soured his stomach. Corvo sighed and rolled his tongue against his teeth, disliking the way it felt heavy and too thick in his mouth.

Maybe he could just give the Loyalists the journal, then – he could pretend to know nothing of the pelt if they asked him about it, could find a way to deal with it that wouldn’t make his skin crawl. He glanced at Martin and Havelock from the corner of his eye, thinking; in the end, though, he didn’t move.

_There is only one man standing between us and complete control of the Empire._

Corvo wasn’t proud of his snooping – Havelock’s journal was the man’s personal property, and not anyone else’s business. But Emily’s safety was his duty, even among friends and honestly, he simply didn’t know them well enough to take everything on their word. The three Loyalists spent far more time speaking with each other, locked away in Havelock’s room, than they ever did talking with him.

It was better to be safe, even here, and if that meant poking into Havelock’s private things, then so be it.

 _Complete control_ – it could be innocent, a simple turn of phrase, but Corvo could not help his wariness. He’d already learnt, first-hand, the outcome of men deciding they were best suited to rule rather than follow.

It was unkind, perhaps. Havelock had honor where Burrows had none, and Corvo knew it was probably just his newly-suspicious nature making trouble where there was none. So far, the Loyalists had been nothing but helpful in their own ways, after all.

But what could it hurt, if he kept the journal to himself for a while longer? Just another day or two, until they were all safe in the Tower with the coronation settled. Just until they proved themselves as completely true as they claimed, and he could trust that they would use the information to help Emily and the Empire, rather than any other plans.

He was growing paranoid, he acknowledged wryly, but it was hard to stop.

And so, he held his tongue, left it all alone for another day. He watched as the three leaders of their resistance retreated to the bar, having quiet conversations that shifted whenever anyone else wandered near.

And later, when the world started swimming around him, when he found himself collapsed on the floor, surrounded by the faces of former friends as he struggled to breathe, he could only be glad for his silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to emeraldonyxdragon for looking over this chapter!


	9. bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What else can he do?_

The world shifts under Daud’s feet. 

He does not let it show, of course. He gives all of his men time off after the Tower; he sends all but the most essential sentries away, and holes up in his office. The wolves will intrude in time, he knows, but he will take every second he can get.

He does not drink. He does not rage. (He does not deserve the escape of either.) Hiram Burrows sends him a note about the Lord Protector’s presence. He sends one back that does not even begin to describe the enormity of his displeasure and then he sits, and he thinks with his thoughts muted and slow, and he breathes cold air into cold lungs.

Old habits resurface. Sometimes he looks up and finds that he has lost hours with no way to account for them. Sometimes he finds himself scrubbing at his hands, his face, his worthless, bloodstained, _human_ skin until it turns red from the heat and the friction.

It has been a long time since he has been so affected, and he knows he should be stronger than that now. He isn’t. He does not know what is wrong with him, but he isn’t.

He dreams. He dreams of the Empress, and of Corvo, but most of all, he dreams of little Emily Kaldwin, torn away from safety and thrown into the hungry sea of greed and power. (There is a mirroring here, he knows, but he cannot look too closely into it or he will be the one that shatters.)

His old teachers, were they still alive, would be disgusted at his weakness. His laugh is something ugly when he sees how his thinking has dovetailed with their teachings over the years. He had learned too well, again, and in all the wrong lessons.

He wallows for three days, and then he wakes up in the middle of the night, feeling unaccountably smothered. He finds when he opens his eyes that large, fluffy bodies have invaded his bed – the smallest has draped itself across his legs with abandon, the largest tucked boldly into his side. His bed smells like fur and warmth.

The largest wolf peeks open one gleaming yellow eye as Daud stares – that they managed to actually _touch_ him without waking him is a sign of just how poorly he is doing. And the wolves aren’t all; he can hear thick claws clicking on wood from heavy steps on the floor below, and the rustle of leathery wings where the open roof looks out on the full moon.

He should throw them all out. He doesn’t. The wolf closes his eyes again and Daud, after a moment, does the same. It is the first night in months that he sleeps without dreams.

He feels the wolves slip away in the early morning, and he’s quite certain none of them are going to mention it. He doesn’t need them to; they were concerned enough to risk his wrath and that says more than enough in itself. He cannot continue like this, or he will lose all control.

So, he pulls together his battered composure and steps out of his office as though nothing has changed. He calls his men back in, sorts through the contracts they have gathered, and sets them back to work. And if the majority of the contracts he chooses involve theft and living ransoms rather than their usual assassinations, well, no one seems to care overmuch.

What else can he do? Nothing can change what he’s already done, and he has a responsibility to keep his men healthy. Food and elixir require money, especially for so large a group.

It doesn’t take long before the Spymaster – Lord Regent, he is already calling himself – sends him another message, another job. Daud, with his sickened heart blocking his throat and his blood white-hot in his veins, sets it on fire and does not respond. For every increasingly tense note thereafter, he does exactly the same, though Burrows never seems to take the hint.

It is difficult each and every time, as his fraught instincts scream a never-ending alarm, but Burrows’ own tense reaction, his repeated attempts, tell Daud that he has gambled correctly. The man is paranoid and afraid – so afraid– and his ascension to the throne has only placed a larger target on his back.

In the weeks following the Empresses death, the Whalers had received three offers for the Spymaster’s life – the pelt in his possession is the only thing keeping the man safe from Daud, and they _both_ know it.

And so Daud dares, because he knows he can. Because now he has leverage in return.

He doesn’t even try to delude himself – he is not so unselfish that he can give up on his sealskin entirely. Were he to meet the man in person, Burrows would be able to use that, either to ply his instincts and regain his submission, or incapacitate him long enough to kill him. So, he avoids the confrontation – he ignores the letters, instructs the lookouts to keep an especially sharp eye out for Campbell’s Overseers, and does his best to act as though the new Lord Regent does not exist.

And Burrows keeps trying, keeps sending letters full of vague warnings and barely-hidden panic, and fails to actually act because he cannot afford to punish Daud’s defiance when doing so will cost him the only safeguard he has.

This does not fix things. It is not what Daud wants. But it is, in some small ways, an improvement.

And so, Daud waits and watches, ignoring the unavoidable pangs of longing to swim. He wishes he could physically see the way his reticence makes Burrows fret, but the satisfaction of regaining some power is tempered by the horror that swallows the city bit by bit.

The plague seems to accelerate despite all efforts, carving great swathes through Dunwall’s poor. It is clear that the Whalers are among the safest, between their masks and their Marks, but soon the edges of the Flooded District are infested with the ill and dying, driven mad by pain.

Daud stands above it all, secure in his Void-given power, and regrets.

But there is nothing he can do about it, so he simply focuses on keeping his men safe. He keeps all possible ears to the ground, waiting for Burrows to slip, and tries to keep his troubled dreams from invading his waking hours.

The Outsider reappears.

Daud comes away from the visit with a renewed, familiar irritation and a name: _Delilah_. She is an unknown, a mystery, and also a distraction from his usual thoughts that Daud jumps on more readily than he would like to admit.

(He realizes far too late that it is as much a distraction as a rotten beam is a good path across a building – useful until it drops his feet out from under him.)

Lurk is especially useful in his search – she thrives on such things, on secrets and mysteries, and she brings information home to him within days, proud eyes steady on him to watch his reaction. She always watches him now, has ever since the Tower, testing and questioning beneath a veneer of obedience.

It does not surprise him. Of all his Whalers, even the wolves, she is the most like he was in his youth, in her bright, vicious red and her simmering anger. So he understands. He is almost proud of her ambition, though he guards his back all the more carefully when she is near.

He follows her to Slaughterhouse Row and that is when he learns that Corvo Attano has escaped from Coldridge Prison.

_Good_ , is his first reaction, grimly satisfied by the thought of Burrows' consternation. _Panic_ is his second, but that doesn't last long either. Corvo will be busy with Hiram Burrows and little Emily Kaldwin, at least for the foreseeable future. It should be enough time for Daud to finish his current projects and after that...

After that, he will take what comes and it will likely be exactly what he deserves.

Daud sees Rothwild into a crate bound for Tyvia and Timsh into the cells of Coldridge. He does not give more than a few second's thought to Abigail Ames' offer. His sword is heavy in his hand, echoing the weight on his heart, and he balks at raising it.

He leaves men sleeping behind him instead, when he cannot pass them by entirely, and sleeps a little easier himself for the change. He has lost his taste for killing, it seems. The only craving he has left is for the salt of the ocean.

Somehow, that makes it all the more distressing when he returns home and finds Overseers waiting for him.

He is incandescent when he realizes: furious, murderous, _terrified_ that his defiance may have cost his men their lives and freedom. But he has never been prone to hysteria and he cools quickly into sharp focus, slipping through the base to find his missing men.

He finds bodies sprawled across his path – Dmitri with his mask askew and his throat slit, Alek and Andrei reaching for each other across the floor – and his stomach sickens further with each one.

He manages not to slaughter the Overseers wholesale, though it is more coincidental than from any merciful intent. He reaches more instinctively now for his sleep darts and his stun mines and he cares more to rescue his remaining men than he does to torment these invaders.

It is more chance than mercy, but it is something. A change in the winds.

But all the while, as he hides bodies and cuts ropes, he is _thinking_. And the more he thinks, the less it makes sense. His defiance may have sparked the attack, yes, but he'd warned the sentries weeks ago about Campbell's knowledge of the base.

As they'd been expecting such an attack, his men should have had warning, a chance to set their usual ambushes and traps. At the _very least_ , the sentries should have reached the others in time for everyone to escape without harm, if they'd thought the fight unwinnable.

There are very few answers to this dilemma that Daud can think of, and none of them are good. Someone circumvented the sentries, sent them away entirely. Someone let in the monster at their door. The attack plans that he finds within the base only enforce his suspicious – one of his people is a traitor. Again.

So the betrayal itself he is prepared for. The perpetrator, on the other hand…

“It’s my fault.” Billie Lurk says, and Daud’s heart drops low.

“You did this.” It is not so much surprise he feels as denial, a bone deep rejection of her actions.

A challenge for leadership he’d expected; an assassin of her caliber would not remain content with second-in-command. But this – to betray their home and safety to the _Overseers?_ In doing so, she has condoned, even caused the deaths of the very men she wishes to lead and Daud...

He does not understand it and he does not want to.

Worse, she has not acted alone. Delilah – such a likeness to her statue, he sees – reveals herself to gloat and spectate from a perch above them all, flexing thorn-sharp nails. The danger of her, the malevolence, is apparent now: real in a way it hadn’t seemed when she’d only been a name.

(And there it is: the wood cracking beneath his feet. The yawning pit of dread under his stomach in the seconds before the fall. When did he forget that distraction is so often deadly?)

For all Delilah's posturing, she does not make her stand there – a wise move too, as she is outnumbered now. She hisses and threatens, wearing brittle pride and knife-sharp viciousness like a cloak over her too-thin, pale form, and then she retreats, leaving Lurk to her own fate.  

“I moved too early.” Billie admits, shoulders back and jaw strong even in her disgrace. “You weren’t weak, like I thought.”

_But I am_ , he wants to say. _I am weak_.

He does not know if she is referring to his pelt, if she uncovered this secret as well, or simply to his recent behavior. But he knows what he is, knows what he has done. His skin is not an excuse – he has not acted as a leader ought. And perhaps that is why he cannot raise his sword to her: that, and the years of camaraderie behind them, sticking bitterly in his throat.

Or perhaps he is simply tired of it all. 

Things seem to speed up after Billie leaves, events tumbling over and past each other in an endless wave. His stomach sours in Coldridge, and not just from the music. The interrogation chair is a stark reminder of the other man hunting through the city, running a parallel path.

Draper's Ward is almost a relief afterwards, despite the turf war raging in the streets. He has to focus on the present as he sneaks by the Eels and the Hatters, which gives him far less time to brood on the past. He takes more to stealth and mercy each day, leaving his blade unstained throughout the ordeal.

(He does not regret this, though he cannot look too closely at the Geezer).

He is not expecting the witches lurking there, but he is good at thinking on his feet. He leaves them sleeping behind him like everyone else, and Stride's boat reaches Brigmore without incident.

Brigmore Manor is dilapidated, a shade of its former expensive glory. But Daud, used to the Flooded District, can see the home that the witches have made for themselves and acts accordingly. He steals a key and slinks by them easily, a ghost in the wind. He will not act as the Overseers did.

Besides, they share the same weakness as his Whalers; if he deals with Delilah, he deals with them all.

When the witches and Delilah's writings reveal her plan for Emily Kaldwin, though, the task becomes more urgent. It is tempting, at times, to act with his blade rather than his skills and his mind, but he refrains. He is talented enough to find other ways and, after these months of practice, it does not slow him down.

He is skilled enough that Delilah, for all her plans and all her power, does not sense him as he skirts the edge of her ritual site. He stops time and transverses past her statues, slipping in when her back is turned to replace the portrait of Emily Kaldwin with that of a lonely tree.

(And it _is_ lonely, he thinks as he carries it. It is majestic, but adrift – isolated in the painted Void. He thinks of Delilah, of her fierce wildness and her kinship with plants and her desperate _hunger_ just behind her eyes. He wonders if she, too, longs for a home that Dunwall cannot give her.

But it is too late for sympathy.)

He returns to Stride’s boat with Delilah’s screams ringing in his ears and slow relief unfurling in his heart. He is not absolved, not forgiven for his actions, but he has done what little he can to ease Emily Kaldwin’s path. It is something, however small in the shadow of his past.

They slip back into Dunwall proper during the dark hours of early morning, the only noises the tempting rush of water and the echoes of the city-wide announcements. The speeches play no matter the hour – Daud blames this desensitization for how long it takes him to realize what this particular announcement is saying.

_“Attention Dunwall Citizens: Hiram Burrows, formerly the Lord Regent, has confessed to heinous crimes against the people of Dunwall. He shall be confined to the Coldridge Prison until the proper authorities decide his sentence."_

It is wrong to feel triumph, Daud knows – it had not been his hand behind the deed and already he can feel panic sparking as his only solid source of information slips beyond his grasp. And yet...he turns his face into the wind, a smile sneaking onto his face, reluctant and a bit too sharp.

He wishes he could have seen it.

But he is not blind to the consequences, to the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Of those originally responsible for the Empress’ death, Daud is now the only one left. As soon as Emily is secure on the throne, he knows where Corvo’s attention will turn.  

They make it back to the Flooded District, every man he left with still on his heels, but he does not let them rest just yet. As soon as all the barricades are down, he gathers up the patrols and sends them all out again.

He gives them reasons – he gives them excuses – and he doesn’t honestly care whether his men believe them or not. They listen to him, either way, and that is the important part. He does have to keep a certain number with him, though; it would go against everything he has taught them to leave the base entirely unguarded and he does not want them questioning his decisions. Not now.

Besides that, he knows there are some, the ones who know him best, who have guessed what he is doing. He expects they would refuse to leave even if ordered and so these are the men he keeps. He sets them to the sentry posts with trepidation; rumor has it that Corvo spilled no blood on his quest for revenge, but Daud cannot know whether it will extend to his Whalers. He hopes so.

It galls him, to throw himself on _hope_ – but that is all he has. The rest is up to Corvo, now.

The Lord Protector will come for him, and whether he fights or begs for mercy, Daud doesn’t know that it will make much difference. In all likelihood, he’s not going to be walking away from the encounter. But it doesn’t matter; all he wants to do now is to save as many of his men as he can. This is his burden to bear.  

He regrets that he will not get to feel the ocean one last time, but he is not so afraid of death, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to emeraldonyxdragon for editing this chapter for me!
> 
> Okay, we're finally getting there, they'll actually be in the same place at the same time. Took them long enough, right?


	10. caught (and all the stars are hiding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whatever happened, whatever became of him, he would face it on his feet._

The Loyalists hadn’t bothered to search him.

It was the one bright spot in an ongoing storm, the smallest of sparks in the darkness. Corvo blessed the boatman twice over again when Samuel sent him down the river as he was, fully clothed, his gear tucked into a box next to him. None of it would help him _now_ , but if he survived the poison, he’d be quite glad to have it.

And so he drifted on the boat: dizzy, nauseated, struggling to breathe, with seal fur wrapped soft and warm around his ribs.

Fever-heat blurred the light and lines around him, warped dreams bleeding over into reality and back again until he could no longer tell one from the other. He might have been floating in the Void for all he knew, and in that twilight space, he dreamed.

_Emily giggled, twirling through the gardens, dancing across the tops of precarious stone walls with a blanket around her neck. “Look, Corvo! Look! I’m flying!”_

He thought he heard the Outsider speak, voice heavy in that usual timbre, balanced between amusement and disdain, but he could not hear the words. Maybe if he got closer…but the Void was a wavering, swirling vortex around him and no matter how hard he strained his ears–

_“Tag, you’re it!” But no matter how fast he ran he couldn’t catch her. He heard laughter, heard footsteps, but never saw more than a flash of her shoes. She seemed always one turn ahead of him, always whisked just out of reach._

But no, it was the water whispering beneath him, rising and falling in languid, steady breaths as it murmured in his ears. There were endless depths beneath him, the cold rush of the river and the dark press of the ocean–calling, inviting, _welcoming–_

_“Do you think I’ll make a good Empress?” She asked him, tucked beneath his arm as they curled up together in the attic. And she was ten years old–frightened, untested, on her way to the throne of a city splitting apart at the seams. But what other answer could he tell her, except yes?_

The whales were singing.

* * *

With his mind was wavering in and out of consciousness and little discernable difference between waking and sleeping, it took him far too long to realize that he had company. They were far-off, wavering ghosts on a rolling bridge and then they were next to him, speaking distant words that were muffled in his ears.

It wasn’t until one of them grasped his coat, pulling him upwards, that he realized they were _real_.    

“Poisoned. Tyvian stuff.” The man–the _Whaler_ –said and Corvo’s heart was spiking painfully in his throat and ears, bitter panic coating his tongue.

“Amateur work. He’ll live.” The unconcerned voice jarred with the echoing desperation of Corvo’s memories, the frantic tussle of magic and steel as he tried to protect his charges from these very men–

(Daud’s men, these were _Daud’s men_ , which meant–)

“That’s up to Daud.” The first man countered and Corvo clenched his eyes shut at the unneeded confirmation.

He wasn’t ready for this. He’d thought he would have more time.

He fell back as the Whaler released him and the world wavered around him, the boat wobbling low in the water with the weight of two extra bodies. His body felt too weak to move and darkness stole over him several times, but he caught enough of his surroundings to recognize the Flooded District as the Whalers rowed the boat along. 

He was out of the city proper, then; he’d not be able to count on any outside help or distractions. Not that he was in much shape to escape anyway. If Daud decided to kill him right off, he’d probably be able to fight about as well as a hagfish.

The thought did not help his rolling stomach.

His mind was still affected by the poison and fever, he knew, but the farther they traveled the more he felt like the pelt around his chest was tightening. There was a hum in his bones, deep and playful and otherworldly like runesong, and he had to clench his teeth against the urge to speak, to let it move through him and voice it aloud.

His mind playing tricks, maybe–or maybe the closer they got to Daud, the more this soft thing of magic and loss would resonate. Corvo had seen too much, _lived_ too much, to shake the notion.

It only highlighted the fact that there was a very clear choice he needed to make here.

Or _was_ it really so clear? He had leverage, certainly – if he could find a way to use it properly, the sealskin would grant him safety and maybe even aid (though not loyalty, never loyalty. He wasn't a fool).

But how far did that control extend? Was Daud _bound_ to obey him, no matter the circumstances? Or could the assassin take the pelt back by force, if he wished to chance it?

As bad as his situation seemed now, it would get _considerably_ worse if he threatened Daud, only to find his threats unenforceable: an outcome that seemed more likely the longer he thought on it. He had no weapons on him, after Samuel’s careful packaging, and no way to reach them without drawing attention.

Even worse, the chances of meeting Daud alone were rather pitifully small – the Whalers ferrying him along would be there, and likely more men besides. Even if Daud was so tightly bound, even if the Whalers had no idea what the pelt was, they would certainly sense any threat he posed and deal with him.

As weakened as he was now, Corvo had no delusions as to his chances against the combined force of the Whalers.

(And deeper was that shifting, growing reluctance. Could he act as Burrows had done, when he stood against everything that man represented? Emily was in danger, and that had always led him to push his own boundaries, but the cruelty of it itched at his mind like an open sore, demanding acknowledgement)

So, if he could not fight, then he needed to bargain.

That...that choice put his back up, prickled against pride and wariness and wild, fierce grief. But he was older now – wiser, he liked to think, and entirely capable of working past his emotions. Pride was an indulgence of youth and even in his younger years, it had never taken him anywhere worthwhile. 

The same problems circled back, ever present and unanswerable. Leverage and power, opposition and opportunity. Cruelty and necessity. Could he stop Daud from simply taking the pelt right off, before he could set terms? _Should_ he?

What if he just…gave it back? Gave it back and _asked_ for help in exchange?

If the sealskin was anywhere near as important as he suspected, Daud would be exceptionally grateful to have it returned. But was gratitude enough to spur him into returning the favor, without a set bargain in place first?

Rumors among the nobles at court, when Corvo had bothered to listen in, placed Daud as anything between a beast and a god, depending on who was speaking. But assassins who turned on their employers did not last long – those stories of betrayal always spread and the offender's name would fade from the circles of high society, shifting instead to the lips of the Overseers.

Daud's name had never been one of those.

That pragmatism together with his skill set had kept his name frequently, albeit furtively, mentioned. It was...not quite a sense of fair play: more an issue of good business, but it was at least sign of principles. Still, Corvo was a bit doubtful, uncertain that such would apply here, when the stakes were so personal and their history so fraught.

Could he risk it? Did he have any other choice worth taking? He shifted one limp, still-numb arm with difficulty, let his fingers drag in the cold water to distract him from the foreign melody purring happily in his veins, and pondered. 

Too soon, far too soon, the boat slowed. The rush of blood to his head as a Whaler picked him up sent his vision dark and his hearing dull, but it cleared off even faster than before, leaving him shaking, but conscious behind metal bars. The cold wind picked up as the cage rose higher, stinging against his face and clearing off some of the haze.

He pushed himself up to stand as the Whalers below him vanished. He faltered as his head pounded and his muscles seized, but he was awake now, and he couldn't afford to slip back. He locked his legs, braced his arms, and waited.

It didn't stop his lungs from freezing when Daud stepped into existence as the cage reached its peak.

Memory clawed at his wearied mind, dragging him back into blurred flashes of white and black and _red_ , the red of that damned coat and Jessamine’s blood coating his hands, stark and unforgiving. It sent his chest aching and his knees weak, threatened his fragile equilibrium, but he gritted his teeth against it all and remained upright.

Whatever happened, whatever became of him, he would face it on his feet.

He stared at Daud as the cage drew close to the building–stared hard, forced himself to work past memory and recognize the man as he was now, to assess without his own preconceptions. He looked…human, though Corvo didn’t know what he had been expecting. Some outward sign, perhaps: some unnamable sense of otherness.

But it was only because he was looking so closely, pushing himself past the luring distractions of that bright red and the hard, aggressive posture, that he realized the man before him also looked...well, rather terrible.

Daud carried himself well, put forward an air of confidence that Corvo was certain would usually appear unshakeable. But the shadows on his face were deep, lingering in the too-gaunt hollows beneath his cheekbones and jaw, painting wide swathes beneath his dark eyes.

And it was his eyes that spoke the most, that caught and held Corvo’s attention – something lingered there, something shaded with exhaustion and grief, ragged and hurting and _hopeless_ in a way that resonated painfully in Corvo’s gut.

He knew that look. He'd seen it often enough in his own reflection. During those first dark nights in the Hound Pits as he recovered from Coldridge–after the nightmares woke him, but before reality truly reasserted itself...

So he knew the emotions poorly concealed behind that stare and his lungs were catching for an entirely different reason now.

The assassin stalked after Corvo's cage as it passed him by, his stride stiff and unhappy: a far cry from those moments of deadly grace Corvo remembered. He had the box full of weapons tucked under his arm, his worn eyes were steady on Corvo's face, and he spoke with a voice like gravel, rasping deep in his throat. "I know a great deal, bodyguard."

And Corvo nearly snorted at him right there, because he didn't know where that speech was going, but he certainly knew the _tone_. Challenging, goading – it was a tone he had used himself often enough, to spur an opponent into forgetting himself so that he could bring the fight to a fast close. So unless Daud was the sort to taunt a captive before killing him – something Corvo, for several reasons, doubted now more than ever – then Daud was planning on keeping him alive.

And more than that, the man wanted him _angry_.

Perhaps Daud truly meant that challenge, truly wanted a battle. But, seeing him now, it seemed just as likely that the man – speaking of shrines now, his voice distant through the ringing in Corvo's ears – simply wanted it all over and done with, in a way he could accept. Starting a fight he didn't plan to win was an easy way to accomplish that.

Because Corvo could understand that too – he might have done the same, might have thrown himself from Coldridge straight for the Lord Regent's throat in useless, furious grief until the palace guards cut him down. But he hadn't, because he'd still had Emily: someone to fight for, someone to care for, someone to help him _heal_.

And what did Daud have?

He knew what he was going to do. Perhaps he’d known since the Hound Pits. But still, he couldn’t help some bleary, amused satisfaction at the abrupt way Daud’s voice halted when he began struggling out of his clothes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you thought I couldn't fit another cliffhanger in there, didn't you? (im sorry, donthurtme)  
> Many, many thanks to emeraldonyxdragon for editing this chapter for me!  
> ALERT: There is art that I meant to point out last chapter and everyone should go look because it's adorable! A huge thank you to the wonderful starbunny for drawing it.  
> You can find it here: https://bunnycombed.tumblr.com/post/150865524099/if-youre-wondering-why-this-exists-blame-the  
> -also can someone teach me how to put the hyperlink/url inside a word, I cannot figure it out-


	11. the slow swinging seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's a song that he hears hanging in the waves, as endless and ever present and ancient as the tide itself._

Upon his return from Brigmore, Daud had fully believed, even as he was sending his men away, that he was in for a wait.

The coronation will have to happen first, perhaps a complete reorganization of the palace guard, and possibly a period of instability when the young Empress would need constant protection. He expects it will be anywhere between a week and a fortnight—or, if he is unlucky, a month or two—before Corvo has time to come deal with him.

He passes the time. He sends a very small team of his remaining men off to Dunwall Tower to see if they might have more luck finding clues about his pelt with Burrows gone. He makes plans he knows he will never use, speaks quietly to his audiograph, and compulsively checks over weapons. He settles in for a wait, because a wait is expected.

What he does _not_ expect is for Thomas to appear the next morning and say, "Julian and Desmond just found the Lord Protector floating down the Wrenhaven. Julian says it looks like he was poisoned. They're bringing him to the Refinery."

Daud blinks. Blinks again. And then, somewhat inanely, asks, "What?"

“Someone poisoned Attano.” Thomas' voice is at its very driest, unimpressed with the absurdity of it all. “Expensive stuff too, apparently, but they botched it. I don’t know if they sent him floating down here to get rid of him or if he escaped on his own, but he’s our problem to deal with now."

Daud does not quite know what to say. His predictions do not usually turn out to be quite so spectacularly wrong.

"Your orders, sir?" Thomas asks after a few patient seconds.

"Wait." Daud says as he leaps to gather his bonecharms and elixirs, and as he moves he forces his thoughts to unfreeze.

There are far too many questions for him to be comfortable—who and how and _why_ , most of all—but he has no time to send men out for the answers and he can deduce the very basics by himself. He wonders quietly, distantly, if this is what will break Corvo’s control entirely, one last drop of venom into a bucket poised to overflow.

A man can only take so much betrayal, after all.

"Was he lucid?" He asks Thomas as he snaps his bow back on. Probably not, if the Whalers managed to take him in.

"No." Thomas confirms. "He was barely conscious, from the sound of it. And even if he wakes up, it’s likely he'll need a few days to recover."

Weak, then—vulnerable. Daud has not changed so much that he does not recognize the opportunity presented here.

He considers it. He hates himself, but he considers it. One last body dumped in the harbor and he could be out of the city within the week, likely with the majority of his men on his heels. All he has to do is to destroy what little is left of Corvo Attano's life and condemn Emily Kaldwin to live out her days in the hands of whatever powerful schemers hold her now.

And, of course, he must give up his pelt, leave any hope of finding it behind forever and live out the rest of his days as a human. Even with that last addendum, he can almost make himself see it, for a split, cold second. Then his stomach turns over in revulsion and he clenches his hands at his sides.

No. He can't—or he won't, and it makes no difference in the end. He'd chosen his path six months ago and there is no turning back now.

He checks his weapons one last time and nods at Thomas. "Show me."

If Thomas hesitates rather longer than he should before complying…well, Daud can't seem to find the energy or desire to scold him for it, and so it goes unacknowledged.

* * *

Corvo looks terrible.

It's not surprising, of course. Poison has a way of wreaking havoc on the system and the journey down the Wrenhaven clearly hasn’t helped either. But the poison is not responsible for what Daud notices—the desperate, starved thinness of his face, the half-healed burns curving up his jaw. The fact that he is here at all, really: that he has been forced to this.

 _And whose fault is that?_ Daud reminds himself, though he hardly needs to, and somehow that makes it easier to step forward.

The Lord Protector is clinging hard to the bars of his cage, white-knuckled and lock-kneed; the Outsider’s Mark is bold against the skin of his left hand, a confirmation of all of Daud’s suspicions. The man is clearly upright only through strength of will, but he has the presence of mind to meet Daud's eyes as Rulfio and Dodge draw him in, and Daud nearly falters.

The searing hatred he expects isn't there.

Oh, it’s not a friendly stare by any means. Daud isn't so far gone as to imagine that. But his expression is far too neutral in comparison to the rage that should be there and the skin between Daud's shoulder blades pickles uneasily. Something is wrong here.

Julian and Desmond shift up to join him on the platform, reminding him of his men standing behind him. He needs to act: to draw Corvo’s attention to him and him alone. Luckily, he’s always been quite good at inciting anger.

"I know a great deal, bodyguard." He starts, and finds to his relief that his voice remains as steady as it should.

"I recognize those marks on your hand. A gift from your friend—the one who talks to you in the dark." He has thought long enough about what he might say that speech comes easily, vague words about the Outsider spilling from his lips without thought as he keeps pace with the cage. He does not meet Corvo's eyes again.

And it's on the tip of his tongue—to speak of the Empress to this man, even as Daud reaches into the box to taunt him with his weapons. It should be enough to draw his rage, Daud thinks, though the taste of it stings with every turn of his tongue. "And I know what it felt– "

Corvo moves in the cage next to him, stumbling back a step from the bars and clawing at his own chest.

Daud jumps. He will never admit it, but he twitches back just the slightest bit at the unexpected contortion and his inflammatory words die away. Some kind of fit, he wonders—a seizure? But no: the Royal Protector has now remembered the existence of buttons and works at them instead. He's trying to get his coat off.

For a moment— _just_ a moment—Daud's mind goes to all the wrong places. He's had his fair share of marks offer him sexual acts and favors in exchange for their lives. Many of those encounters had begun in a startlingly similar manner. He has to force himself to unfreeze, to pull his hands out from the box, and he stares at the man with more than a little alarm.

Someone coughs uncomfortably behind him—clearly, he was not the only one to get those offers, either.

But the noise wakes him up and he gives himself a mental slap. The man is addled from the poison; he likely doesn't even recognize where he is anymore, if he ever did. That would explain the lack of hostility. Daud sighs and abandons his speech. "Rulfio, Julian– "

His voice freezes in his throat.

His men step up behind him, waiting for orders, but he hears them from a distance. He cannot take his eyes from Corvo, from the flash of familiar, gleaming grey that he thought he had seen beneath–

He had—Corvo snaps the last of his buttons off without care, slides his coat down shaking arms, and a glimpse of grey becomes yards of it, a folded bolt of ruffled fur coming loose from its slipshod wrap around his torso. Corvo drops his coat and catches the wrap before it hits the floor, pulls the rest away from his body until he has the full length in his hands, even though it makes him stumble.

It is, very clearly, a sealskin. Daud cannot move. The world is ringing in his ears, scraping in his lungs, but he cannot make himself move.

Corvo folds the skin carefully over his arms in layers and leans against the cage bars. One hand holds his weight, but the other presses the fur to a gap, so that a quick hand could pull it through with minimal effort. His eyes meet Daud's and they are pain-filled, but cognizant. He knows where he is.

He says, rough and winded, "I believe this is yours."

Daud can't _breathe_.

There are rumblings from the small group of Whalers behind him, faint in his ears—anger from most of them, from those who understand, and Thomas at his side is fairly vibrating with a low, inhuman growl. It's a noise of fury, of pain, resonating in Daud's gut, and it foreshadows a great deal of bloodshed.

"I'm not... _threatening_ him," He hears Corvo say, with pauses between to breathe, and the words don't make any sense. "I'm...giving it _back_."

He's what?

Corvo is staring right at him and Daud meets his gaze, but his thoughts are still a jumble of shock-panic _instinct_. He doesn't know how long he might have stood there, but someone shoves him hard in the back and he stumbles a few steps forward.

" _What_ are you waiting for?" Rulfio hisses behind him, and then somehow Daud is at the cage, reaching out.

Corvo doesn't stop him.

His gloves are in the way, but the fur gives like the finest velvet under his fingertips, slipping easily through the bars. He knows, at the first touch, that it is whole and undamaged and _his,_ and his breath starts again finally, a ragged gasp of relief leaving him that he should be ashamed at making.

He bundles his skin into his arms, dips his head until his chin brushes fur—it's real, he can _feel_ it, it doesn't vanish the way it used to in his occasional dreams—and breathes in the smell of salt and warmth. Something in his world seems to right itself, something he hadn't even felt tilting so far wrong, and Daud–

He opens his eyes and finds Corvo watching him, dark eyes wide, but focused. The other man searches his face for a moment longer and then nods, short and small, as though to himself.

"You–" Daud stops. He doesn’t—he doesn’t _understand_ **.** What did… _why_ did…?

He doesn’t understand _at all_.

Corvo reaches through the bars and grasps his wrist. It isn't a threat or even a restraint—he's in no shape or position for either. It's a question, Daud thinks through his daze, or perhaps more like an anchor.

"I need your help." Corvo reveals, truthful and unashamed. His skin is fevered, a band of heat around Daud's wrist. He has started to sway on his feet.

"Anything." Daud breathes, and means it. How could he not? _"Anything."_

Corvo closes his eyes, huffing as though Daud had struck him, as though he'd expected to be refused. He opens them again a moment later, but his hand tightens painfully and his struggle to remain strong is clear. "Emily's in danger. The Hound Pits pub– "

He stops to cough and his knees visibly buckle with the force of it. Thomas is suddenly there and Daud becomes aware of the baffled silence behind him, which he perhaps should care more about.

"You need healing first." Thomas tells Corvo bluntly, even as he knocks the cage door open to let the man out. He stands firm in the harsh glare Corvo gives him. "Unless you want us to go without you. You're not going far like that."

This bears out when Corvo has to grasp the edges of the cage doorway as he tries to leave it. Then Dodge is there as well, slipping up to sling an arm around Corvo's waist, easy as though he belongs. Corvo blinks down at him for a startled moment before leaning an arm on his shoulders, accepting the aid.

Daud catches the quick look Thomas throws his way and drags his head back in the game, just barely. The fur in his arms burns through his coat and the water outside sings. "Will she come to harm if we don't act now?"

Corvo's shoulders twitch at his voice, but he meets Daud's eyes willingly and, after a moment, reluctantly shakes his head. "They can't. They need her too badly."

"Then take a few hours to rest." Daud has to soften himself consciously. This isn't one of his men to command. He can wait a few seconds longer. "We can scout ahead while you do."

Corvo looks likely to argue, but Dodge tugs him forward and he stumbles in his steps. Movement clearly takes more focus than it should, and Daud isn't surprised when the other man's face draws up in frustrated disgust.

A touch to his elbow reveals Rulfio beside him now.

"I'll send scouts to the Old Port District and Thomas will bully this one into the infirmary." He murmurs. "We'll find you when it's time. Go on."

He doesn't argue—not this time. One last glance at Corvo, now grasping Thomas' shoulder as well, and Daud goes.

* * *

The ocean seems only steps away; like this, the rooftops pass by without his notice. The ringing in his ears has spread, dampening his thoughts and vibrating through his body until his head and lungs feel full and light. He is drifting, almost: flying.

It hadn't been like this, the last time he recovered his pelt. He does not know what this is. Something different, something new: something that aches like a half-healed wound in his chest. He cannot spare the time to pin it down, not just now.

The shock of water around his calves shakes him out of his daze. The open ocean stretches before him and his boots are now swamped. He cannot much bring himself to care, but he backs away out of habit to strip out of his clothes.

He takes a moment once his gloves are off to spread his skin across his lap and examine it, each spot and scar and ragged edge. He cannot remember the last time he did so and it soothes something raw in him as he runs his hands over ruffles in the fur, sweeping it straight. He buries his nose in it, his heart stinging, and for a second he remembers the smell of his mother's fur in the sunlight.

Wrapping himself in it feels like a homecoming, the shift like release, and he is fully, finally himself when opens his eyes to ocean once more.

Dunwall's waters are as filthy as ever, but it matters so little right in this moment. He carves through the water, flips and rolls like a pup less than half his age, delight curling higher with every brush of the current. His loss hasn't lasted that long, he knows, especially compared to the first time, but he doesn’t care.

The ocean feels new to him now, bright and welcoming. It's him that's changed, perhaps—regret and mercy in the place of his younger self's anger.  He can only consider it an improvement.

He spirals down into deeper waters and back up again, bulling through a school of hagfish to snap playfully at their tails. The sounds of the ocean are deep and soft around him and he lets the fish run, hanging back in stillness to listen for a moment.

It's a song that he hears hanging in the waves, as endless and ever present and ancient as the tide itself. It hums in his bones, curls in his heart, draws ever tighter around the growing knot in his chest.

It is a part of him—this sound, this place—as much a part of his self as his fur and fangs. And he'd thought it just as lost as his sealskin; he'd resigned himself, before entering that refinery, to dying fully human. Resigned himself to the loss, to never feeling his home again.

And Corvo had just given it all back to him.

That feeling in his chest, unfamiliar and grown scorching, claws itself higher and swells in his throat. He is far from free, Daud knows. He has promises to keep and debts that can never be repaid. But now he has this moment, to feel and to be, before his men call him back to the fold. That is more than enough, more than he ever could have hoped for.

He cannot help it. After years of silence, years of denial, he opens his jaws and he _sings_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to emeraldonyxdragon for helping me with this chapter!  
> -chapter title taken from The Seal Lullaby-
> 
> So, in the original outline for this story, this was it. The story ended here. But then more ideas bit and Daud/Corvo reared its head and so of course we're not done. 5-6 more chapter at least.  
> (Also, this was supposed to be done three weeks ago. Blame Daud.)


	12. second verse (same as the first)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Could almost pity the Watch a little. I don't think your **employers** imagined that you might come back with reinforcements."_

Corvo woke up.

This was mildly disturbing, as he couldn't actually remember falling asleep in the first place—or being attacked, which was honestly more likely with the way things had been lately. But as he swam his way slowly out of the darkness, he could feel a bed beneath him, with a pillow under his head and the weight of a blanket on his legs.

He breathed for a moment, comfortable and unconcerned, listening to the low murmur of voices in the warm air around him. And then he remembered: poison and Whalers and _Daud_.

He jolted upright, both warmth and bleariness chased away by a short moment of panic. His head swam as he did so, but not nearly as much as he'd expected it to, so he was able to blink it away and take in the room beyond.

It was a comfortable room, full of evenly spaced beds and well-lit spaces. And, of course, Whalers—several were curled up on nearby beds, most of them unmasked and neatly bandaged, talking quietly amongst themselves. They didn't stop talking at his abrupt awakening, though he caught the many sidelong glances cast his way and movement at the other end of the room revealed two more Whalers slipping out through a door.

Everything around him was unfamiliar, threatening. He had to pull in a few deep breaths and force his heartbeat to calm down.

He'd made his decision, his choice—he shouldn't need to fear Daud or his men now and there was nothing to be gained by any continued animosity on his part, no matter how much their uniforms still set him on edge. Besides, they'd obviously had him unconscious at some point and nothing worrisome had come from it.

By the looks of it, when he took a second glance, the room was some sort of makeshift infirmary. At least, that was what made sense, considering the last vague, distorted memory he had involved arguing with two Whalers about coming to exactly such a place. Clearly he’d lost that argument, even if he couldn’t remember how.

It didn’t matter. The rest had done him quite a bit of good, as little as he liked to admit it, but worry was ringing a constant alarm in his thoughts. Emily was still out there, still in danger. He shifted, determined now to stand, and paused as his feet bumped a small bundle at the end of the bed.

Someone had left his coat folded neatly at his feet. It was cleaner than it had been, Corvo found when he pulled it up into his lap, and someone had gone to the trouble of fixing it up. The most obvious tears in the cloth had been mended and all of the buttons were there, when he was quite certain he’d torn a few off in the cage.

Corvo blinked down at it, a bit befuddled.

"About time." Corvo didn't jump at the deep, rumbling voice that suddenly spoke at his shoulder, but it was a close thing. He looked up...and up further.

Had he been standing, the Whaler next to him would have topped him in height by at least a head and a half, with muscled bulk to match. His face was broad and square, scored and pitted with scars, but he peered down at Corvo with a pleasant enough expression and Corvo couldn’t spy any obvious weapons on him.

"Was startin' to wonder if you wouldn't be wakin' up, Lord Protector." He said, and Corvo couldn't quite stop himself from leaning back as the man leaned down to stare closely at his face. "Nasty stuff, poison. Effective, but nasty. I fixed up what I could, though. How's your chest?"

"Better." Corvo answered after a moment, and truly it was. He could catch his breath again; his throat was still rough, but not nearly as painful, and his gut had settled down. "How did I get here?"

“Oh, the wolves dragged you in a few hours ago.” The man said distantly, ignoring Corvo’s quizzical look to poke through the pouches on his belt. “Seems you didn’t have enough energy for more than a few transversals—and no wonder, the state you were in. Open your mouth.”

The man leaned back in, apparently intending to check him over, but Corvo carefully shook his head. “Thank you…for your help, but I need to go. I’ve spent too much time resting already.”

“Now, hold on there. I don’t think you realize just how much damage poison can do to you, Lord Protector.” The look the Whaler gave him could best be described as _stern_ , and Corvo inexplicably felt like a misbehaving boy standing in front of his old school matron. “Just because I’ve treated it doesn’t mean you’re out of danger; believe me, I could tell you some tales-”

“Just let him poke at you.” One of the other Whalers hissed from his bed and Corvo heard another hiding a laugh under a cough. “Faster than his stories, and less disgusting.”

“It’ll give the others time to fetch Daud anyway.” A second Whaler added, more reasonably.

Corvo stared at them. They stared right back with varying expression of interest and amusement. He sighed.

…

Twenty minutes later, he stumbled out of the infirmary with directions to Daud’s office and an admonishment not to overextend himself for the next few days.

“Not that I think you’ll listen,” Leon—as the physician had introduced himself—handed him a few vials even as he spoke. Having earlier downed a few mouthfuls of the foul substance inside, Corvo twisted his mouth in distaste, but accepted them. “Avoid too much spice and alcohol for a week at least, and drink one of those if you start to feel nauseated.”

Then Corvo was making his way through the assassins’ base—in the middle of the _Flooded District_ , which was both inspired and insane. No wonder none of the city watch had ever found their hideout; the majority of the district had long been considered uninhabitable.

Actually, it was probably for the best that the Watch had kept well away, Corvo decided. Because, as he made his way up through the old Chamber of Commerce, he was heartily glad that he was doing so as an ally and not as a foe. There were Whalers _everywhere_ , far more than he would have guessed offhand.

And they were all watching him.

Some were more subtle than others, masked heads turning to follow him as he walked, but others simply stared outright. A few felt hostile, but so many more, especially those without masks, were leaning closer to curiosity, or interest, or something that looked suspiciously like awe. He tried not to let it get to him, but his steps undeniably quickened as he went.

Daud's office was more open than Corvo had imagined it would be, wood and sunlight and open air—though really, he should probably just discard all of his expectations at this point. But the faint smell of the sea whispered by him when he walked in the door, carried in from the nearby waters on the wind coming through the high windows and broken roof.

Perhaps not so strange a choice then.

The office wasn't empty; a small number of Whalers in blue uniforms were gathered around a table across the room and looked up at him as one when he walked in, their voices fading to low murmurs. But he found the man he was looking for when he glanced upwards.

Daud padded into view at the top of the stairs, his stride quick if not yet hurrying. His hair was spiked, wet and still slightly dripping, water spotting the shoulders of his coat as he fastened something to his wrist with nimble fingers.

Corvo could guess where he'd been and his ever-active curiosity stirred, questions about _everything_ starting to bubble up in the back of his mind. But then he met Daud's eyes and his breath caught.

He still looked worn, colored by shadows and too little sleep, the way Corvo felt if he lingered too long. But his eyes were _alive_ , bright and fierce and fairly gleaming with some unnamable emotion as his mouth started to curl up at the corners. There was energy back in his face, purpose back to his posture, and it was such a marked difference from the defeated man he'd been that Corvo nearly _felt_ it, like a shock of adrenaline tingling up his spine.

Any lingering doubts he might have had about his choice were quiet now.

"Feeling better?" Daud's voice carried across the space between them. The question seemed genuine rather than mocking in the way that Daud eyed him up and down with surprisingly clear concern and so Corvo nodded. "I'll be down in a moment. Rulfio will fill you in on the basics."

The basics, it seemed, involved what information they had gathered from the Hound Pits while he'd been unconscious—the most alarming being the fact that Emily and the Loyalists were already gone.

"They left quite the guard force behind though, trying to get into one of the buildings. We think someone’s hiding out in there, holding them off." The man named Rulfio explained quickly as Corvo's stomach dropped. "One of them will know where they took her, and we're _quite_ good at getting information."

The light reflected strangely off his eyes for a moment and the slightest chill of goosebumps crept up Corvo's neck.

Daud joined them with a whisper of sound and darkness, scattering half of the present Whalers off immediately to gather others—they'd be travelling in force, it seemed, and Corvo didn't bother to stifle the small surge of satisfaction at the thought of meeting the Watch on equal footing.

The very next action Daud took was to offer him a box.

Having his sword back in his hand released tension that he hadn’t even noticed he was holding and Corvo quickly put the rest of his gear to rights, clipping on bone charms with ease. Voices began to echo around him as Whalers flocked to the room. Rulfio was tracing out the quickest path through the sewers on a map along the wall and an underlying energy began to thrum through the room, a collective anticipation for the upcoming conflict.

Daud stood next to him through it all, a heavy, steady presence at his shoulder. One eye seemed to stay on the organized chaos around them. The other half of his attention, he kept on Corvo, tracking him with quick, regular glances that felt more considering than wary or suspicious.

He blinked when Corvo caught him at it, glanced away and back again like a skittish street dog. Then he said, quiet under the noise, "Thank you."

The words were heavy, strained with the weight of all the conversations they need to have. But Daud just stopped there, his face serious and his eyes so very earnest, even as his shoulders rose just slightly. Something about him still made Corvo's heart hurt.

"Thank you for helping me," He offered in return. It didn't begin to address the situation they were in, or the mess in his own head, but they didn't have time for more. Emily was still out there, in danger, and she came before everything else. But he stepped closer, accidentally brushing shoulders with Daud, and promised, "We'll talk, later."

Daud seemed startled for a moment—Corvo didn't know by what, didn't know him well enough to guess. But then he smiled, fully this time, creasing the deep scar across his face. "Don't thank us until we've managed it, Lord Protector."

His posture relaxed as he spoke and Corvo didn't resist the urge to smile back, to accept that subtle invitation. They were in this together now—trust would have to be built, but camaraderie could only help.

"Time to see if your Whalers live up to their reputation, then." He returned, which made Daud tick an eyebrow at him. It was time to refocus, though.

"How long until they're ready to leave?" He asked quietly instead, tipping his head at the gathering Whalers to refocus them on the present.

"Soon." Was his answer, which might have been a dodge if not for the flash of teeth Daud gave him, sharp-edged and pleased. "Could almost pity the Watch a little. I don't think your _employers_ imagined that you might come back with reinforcements."

No, they likely hadn't and Corvo felt his lips curling up in an answering grin, likely just as sharp. Another thing to add to the list of... _mistakes_ they'd made, one he intended to take full advantage of.

And he was quite looking forward to it.

* * *

"Gnaw his flesh away, my little birds!"

(—because it wasn't that easy, when did he forget that it was never that easy, that fate and the Outsider seemed bound and determined to drive him to drink from the life of utter _absurdity_ that he now had to deal with—)

"- damn it, Dodge _, stop shooting her!_ You're just making it worse—"

"—why isn't she dying?!"

"Slackjaw said to burn a cameo first!"

“—rats, _rats_ , you idiots, _move_ —"

* * *

"That was disgraceful." Corvo informed them. It might have had more impact without the vaguely hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. Or if he hadn't been sprawled out on the floor in front of the furnace, thoroughly winded. "What's the point of you all if you couldn't handle one witch?"

"That wasn't a witch." Daud groaned as he pulled himself up from the floor using the corner of the ornate bed. "I've stabbed witches and they die like anyone else. _That_ was an _abomination_."

One of the Whalers made a vague noise of agreement as the last of the battered men stumbled into the room to regroup. Corvo, unable to resist such an opening, raised his head as Daud moved over to loom above him. "Oh really? Sure you're not just losing your touch?"

Daud just huffed at him, seemingly more amused than offended as some mirror of Corvo’s laughter curled around his lips and eyes. Behind him, though, Corvo clearly caught the ripple of surprise that passed through the Whalers watching them. And, perhaps ominously, he noticed as the three in blue—that he'd finally labeled as Rulfio, Thomas, and Dodge—put their heads together to whisper.

But still, when Daud offered him a hand to pull him back to his feet, Corvo took it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still alive...the writing muse was just hiding for a while there. So wrote two chapters of this story to coax it back out and now I'll focus on Eyes Turned Skyward for a while.
> 
> As usual, a huge thank you to emeraldonyxdragon for editing this for me!


	13. worth two lions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The mask wasn't just to frighten people, you know."_

The Hound Pits Pub is on the river.

Daud had known that already, of course, from maps and a vague memory of passing it by. But the fact strikes him viscerally when they reach the open air.

The sight of water, the smells and the sounds—it's all deeper than he remembers it, as though he's regained some sixth sense. He suspects he's just more conscious of it, now that it’s back within reach and he doesn't have to ignore it all for his own peace of mind, but it's still hard to turn away.

As enjoyable as it is, as much as he wants to bask in it, it'll become a distraction, a weakness, if he's not careful. He pushes it down and looks to his right instead, where Corvo is perched next to him on the rooftop, examining the Watch patrols below.

That's really not much better, though. Because the fact of the matter is, he doesn't quite know what to _do_ with Corvo.

Corvo just… _giving_ his pelt back is hard enough to accept. Something like that had never been included in the stories Daud's mother had told him, had never occurred to him as a possibility. And add on the fact that Daud had undeniably _murdered_ his charge and kidnapped his daughter, and yet Corvo _still_ returned it when he could have done so much worse...

Corvo looks up, catching Daud’s eyes, and Daud looks away. It's all a mess, hitting him upside the head every time he even considers it. Something better dealt with later as well.

"You’d like them alive, I assume?” He murmurs, flicking a hand at the watchmen below. The masked felon’s reputation for slipping through enemy forces like a ghost is well-established by now, but this is Corvo’s mission. Better to check.

“Yes.” A challenge sparks in Corvo’s voice for a moment. “Will that be a problem?”

"Probably easier, at this point. We haven't killed anyone in months." Daud admits just to soothe Corvo's ruffled feathers. The other man looks more thoughtful than surprised and settles back on his heels.

"Tall boys will take a bit more work." Rulfio squirms up between them on his forearms and belly, glancing down at the street with a keen interest. "Won't be too hard, though. We just have to make sure they fall forward, stop those oil tanks from exploding and cooking them."

"All right." Corvo nods, then tips his head towards them both, a different challenge this time.. "I hope your men can handle the Watch better than they did one old woman."

Amusement colors his voice as he speaks, makes it clear that he's teasing, even if derisiveness would make more sense. He shouldn't be so easy, shouldn't welcome them around him like this, even if he needs their help. More expectations that he ignores entirely.

"Watch it, Attano." Rulfio flashes his teeth, happily accepts the challenge. "I didn't see you doing much better. How many rat bites do you have again?"

"Focus." Daud reminds him, even if it is interesting to see how easy his men are with Corvo in return.

A quick conference later, pairs of Whalers slink off together to properly position themselves, some perching on the rooftops nearby while others slip into the pub or over to the shipyard. The signal from the furthest team—three sharp whistles—sends them exploding out of cover.

Sleep darts and choke holds incapacitate the watchmen on the ground, the quiet flurry of movement punctuated by a few daring transversals onto the shoulders of the tallboys. His men grip tight, slip sleep darts into holes in their armor, and push off, sending the soldiers toppling forwards. Daud holds his breath, uncertain, but though the noise is spectacular as the tallboys fall, the oil tanks hold.

It's over in less than ten seconds. None of the watchmen had managed to call for help, much less wield a weapon and the only movement left in the yard comes from the Whalers as they regather, lumping bodies together in a large pile.

He glances over at Corvo, satisfied. "Good enough?"

And Corvo nods in acknowledgment, not even bothering to tease as he examines the results. "Good enough.”

* * *

Daud has the feeling that Samuel Beechworth does not much approve of him.

A silly thing to notice, really. He knows that _most_ people don't approve of him. The timid maid had screamed when he'd appeared behind Corvo in her hidden apartment, and the Empress' governess has yet to leave the tower, watching them warily from the doorway instead.

Reasonable enough—the only ones who welcome assassins are those who want to make use of them or those without enough morals to care one way or the other.

Sokolov, for example. When they free him and Joplin from the workshop, the man eyes him, face severe in recognition, before he turns away entirely, far more interested in the contraption he and Joplin have made.

("A pity you decided to rely on brute force." The philosopher had sniffed. "This would have been the perfect opportunity to test the new pylon.")

And not even a thank you. He's even less charming than Daud remembers him being, but it’s clear that he cares little about Corvo's methods and allies, however dubious.

Beechworth, though, watches them all and says very little for it. Daud suspects that he sees far more than he should.

"I can get you to the lighthouse, sir." He hears the boatman say to Corvo. Daud has given them some space to talk, but he's easily within hearing distance and close enough to see the guarded eye that Samuel sweeps over the shifting mass of Whalers standing guard around the pub. "But this old boat can't take more than six or so."

Daud could contact Lizzie, but that would cost a great deal of time and coin. Besides, while having numbers helps with speed, they're not strictly necessary. He suspects he and Corvo could easily conquer the lighthouse and remnants of the Loyalists just between the two of them.

So that is how he finds himself tucked between Corvo and Thomas on the tiny little motorboat, the water flashing by within reach as they make their way to the lighthouse.

He's well used to boats by now—travelling as a seal comes with its own logistical problems—but today feels different, of course. The salt in the air and the rushing thrum of the water beneath them make his heart skip. The longing is there of course, but it is lighter now. Easier as a game of patience than one of frustration. So much easier when he knows he can dive deep whenever he needs to.

Still, he wraps his hands around his knees to stop himself from reaching out and dragging his fingers in the water. Not the time, right now.

He's busy watching the water and the horizon, so he near on jumps when Corvo grasps his arm. He checks quickly, uncertain if he has missed something, but no—Thomas is still up by the boatman, plying him with quiet questions, and Dodge and Rulfio are whispering together, paying him no mind.

Corvo is silent, simply watching him out of the corner of one eye with one hand wrapped lightly around his forearm. He looks...questioning? Or maybe concerned, Daud decides, though why should he be—?

Corvo flicks a glance at the water around them and then Daud understands. Of course, everything the man knows of selkies must have come from the old human tales, where returning a skin meant losing the selkie back to the sea. He doesn't know how Daud will react with water all around them.

But Corvo's hold feels much the way it had back at the refinery—something to gain his attention, pull him back to the present. It doesn't feel like a restraint or a threat, like Daud might have expected. Because of this, Daud catches his eye and nods, reassuring. And after a moment Corvo tilts his head in acknowledgment and turns away.

He leaves his hand resting lightly on Daud's arm, though. And Daud doesn't shake him off.

* * *

He'd been right. They don’t need five men.

Once the Watchtower goes down—and they hit it first, of course—the guards outside fall easily and silently. The arc pylons, likewise, are laughably easy to avoid. So the only true danger they find is the music boxes, carried on a surprisingly scant number of Overseers. (Daud had expected more, considering they were chasing the new High Overseer, but perhaps the politics hadn't had time to settle.)

Faced head on, they could have been deadly. Spread out as they are across the wide expanse of the lighthouse courtyard, with plenty of cover provided for assassins who preferred to approach from behind...

"They're guarding the _Empress_. Shouldn't they have better security than _this_?" Rulfio says in disbelief, prodding a rat with his foot as it sniffs too close to the collapsed bodies of the guards that they are dropping in the middle of the courtyard.

To Daud's right, Corvo snorts in agreement, head tilted back to watch the dark flickers of the Void overhead as Thomas and Dodge round up the watchmen on the walls. He looks a bit pale, but the poisoning hasn't seemed to affect his fighting abilities. Though his use of his Mark could use some work, Daud thinks, and then kicks himself. Not his place.

"Let's not get too comfortable." He reminds them both as Thomas and Dodge transverse down to join them. "They might just be planning to make a last stand at the top."

Only, they're not. The bridge is mildly irritating with the arc pylon right in the middle of it, but the only guard is on the bridge itself. It is simple enough to sleep dart the guard and transverse over the top of the bridge, bypassing the pylon entirely.

(The key to the elevator is on the belt of the guard _right_ _next to the elevator_. The stupidity of it boggles Daud's mind.)

There are even _less_ guards at the top of the lighthouse. And the ones that _are_ there appear to have a tendency to stare out at the view below them, rather than down the path leading to the elevator. Daud is edging from bemusement right over into disdain, but Corvo looks torn between outright fury and somewhat inappropriate laughter. A rather common look for him, Daud had noticed over the course of their journey—perhaps that was how he kept himself from slaughtering everyone.

A third of the way up the stairs in the highest room of the lighthouse, Corvo pauses for a moment. The echoes in this room are impressive and they can easily make out the deep voice of a man, talking in quick starts and stops, as though to himself.

"Havelock." Corvo murmurs and Daud readies his crossbow. They've finally found the Loyalist Conspiracy.

Or, as it turns out, they've found what's left of it.

Because when they creep to the top of the stairs, quiet like mice to the sides of the doorway, the Overseer and the noble are slumped at the table, pale and limp with empty cups tipped over next to lifeless fingers.

Corvo huffs a short, wrenched-out breath, but when Daud turns to look at him for instructions, he vanishes. The sound of Havelock's self-aggrandizing, which Daud had only kept half an ear on, falls silent. And that is when they can finally hear the voice underneath it.

"Let me out!” Emily Kaldwin’s voice is familiar—she'd cried for hours before they'd handed her off to the Pendleton twins. “Who is that? Admiral Havelock? If you don’t let me out, I’m going to make you stand in a corner until you _learn_ how to behave."

Daud's legs feel about as steady as sand, but he forces himself into the room after Corvo in time to see him carelessly drop Havelock's body to the floor.

"I want to bring him with us. He can keep Burrows company in Coldridge." He tells Daud rather distractedly as he snatches up a nearby key, prominently displayed on a side table. "Can one of you carry him?"

"Got it." Rulfio volunteers, and even he sounds subdued. "We should wait somewhere else, shouldn't we? Downstairs? So you can...explain."

Corvo blinks at them before his face twists in understanding and he nods. “Probably for the best.”

So Rulfio scoops up Havelock’s hefty form with a grunt, turning with the others to make for the stairs. He turns when Daud doesn’t follow him, but continues on, slower now, when Daud waves them off.

Corvo is watching him when he looks back, oddly inscrutable. “I’ll not lie to her.”

“I know that.” Even if he might have quietly hoped otherwise, he’d known. “Just—”

His voice sticks. Somehow, miraculously, Corvo seems to understand. “She wouldn’t.”

Daud feels his face twist at that, even as he does his best to remain impassive. Corvo means well, perhaps, but Daud has lived over forty years this way and knows how unlikely those words are.

" _I_ wouldn't." Corvo huffs, apparently reading his face. "And she's far kinder than I ever was."

"Not now, maybe," Daud narrows his eyes, watching every shift in Corvo's expression, "but if she ever wants me to do something I'm not willing to do?"

He expects Corvo to snap at him, but surprisingly the other man's mouth twitches. "She's going to be an Empress. She'll have plenty of other ways to make you uncomfortable if she needs to." Then he sobers. "I can't think of any need that would justify doing that to you."

"As though anyone cares whether it's _justified_." Daud snorts at him, but Corvo's face is open and serious. Honest. He sighs, tries for honesty himself. "If anyone deserves to know, it's her, after what I did. Doesn't mean I have to like it. It never ends well."

"If it helps, I'd probably just kill you, if it came to that point." Corvo offers, somewhat wry. "As long as you're not planning to try anything against Emily, I think we can work past anything else."

That...should not be a comfort. Somehow it is though, and Daud nods, grateful. A particularly loud _thud_ echoes through the room—as though Emily has kicked the door in frustration—and they both wince. Daud steps back.

"It'll work out." Corvo murmurs, low and soft as he turns away. "Trust me."

Daud thinks he might, already. That's part of the problem.

He leaves the room, pads slowly down the spiral steps to join the others at the bottom. They’ve taken their masks off, he sees, which is probably a good idea. The girl won’t have any good memories associated with those.

He doesn’t want to wait in that room, with the looming statue of Burrows staring down at him.

Daud steps outside and looks towards the sea. The sun is just beginning to set, a tinge of orange starting to color the water. He leans on the railing and breathes it in. Thinks about how it will feel to swim out for miles—because he _can_ , now—and lets that occupy his thoughts instead of the discussion going on upstairs.

"Sir?" Rulfio says after some time, and waits until Daud looks at him. "Where are we going, after this?"

The _we_ isn't entirely a surprise, but still pleasant to hear. Less pleasant is the fact that Daud doesn't know. Everything has changed and he—and _they_ cannot be the same as they were before, but he doesn't know what that looks like yet.

He's saved from having to respond by the sound of two sets of footsteps on the stairs behind them.

Emily Kaldwin walks down the stairs like the Empress she will soon be—chin up, shoulders back, with an even pace and her eyes straight forward. That noble poise lasts until she spots the Whalers waiting for her and then she falters. Her hand reaches up, grasps Corvo's tightly, and suddenly she is a child again. A child with reason to be afraid of him. Daud's stomach lurches.

Corvo murmurs something to her, too low to hear, and her head lifts, her jaw squaring. She lets go of his hand and precedes him down the rest of the stairs. Daud steps forward to meet her and she pauses on the last step, watching him.

She's so _small_ —even with the addition of the step, she barely reaches his chest. Insight sparks and he kneels down in front of her, puts them at more of a height. Her eyes are wide, dark brown (Corvo's eyes, but that's not really his business either).

And this close he can see that, while she is clearly nervous, she is also examining him closely, curiously. Looking for signs of his other half, perhaps. It makes him itch.

"Lady Emily." He starts, and waits for her miniscule flinch to settle.

It does so quickly and she clenches her jaw, loosens it again. Then she dives into speech, as though they'd already been in the middle of a conversation. "Corvo says you didn't want to do it. That the Spymaster _made_ you do it."

It’s clear what she means by _it_ and that's...not right. True in part, but it absolves Daud of so much responsibility, of the gruesome reality of it all, and shifts it more fully onto Burrows' shoulders. Is that what Corvo thinks, why he had been so accepting? The idea doesn't sit well.

When he glances at Corvo, though, the other man is impassive, carefully observing their interaction. When he catches Daud's eye, he tips his head toward Emily, his expression a warning. Nothing about him seems overly permissive or forgiving.

Perhaps he told something of a white lie for Emily's benefit, to reassure her that her mother's killer is no longer a danger. Or this might even be her own interpretation of the situation. But she is still waiting for his response and this does not seem the time or place to argue his role in so painful a memory for her.

"The Spymaster did order me to do it, yes. But I never should have listened, no matter what he threatened me with." He compromises with that. She keeps his gaze and nods, wide-eyed and serious, and it’s neither condemnation nor forgiveness, but he feels compelled to continue.

"I...am sorry.” He keeps his voice low, but that doesn’t stop it from cracking just slightly. “For what I...for what I've taken from you..."

He stops and stares at her helplessly, his shoulders slumping. Words have never been his forte, and there are no words for this. No apology good enough, even if she deserves the best he can give. And by the way she is blinking rapidly, her mouth twisting, he is only making it worse.

But before he can scramble to fix it—or worry about Corvo gutting him—she steps in close, down off the step, and reaches out. Her hands are slow, careful, but he holds very still as she grips the edge of his coat sleeve. That she is willing to touch him after everything is…odd.

“But you’re not going to kill anymore.” She says. “Right? Because Corvo helped you and now you can be a seal again.”

It’s not a surprise that she knows, not after Corvo warned him in the room above, but still he flinches to hear it spoken of so bluntly. He almost twitches his sleeve right out of her grasp, but strangely, her shoulders drop as she watches him and her eyes seem to soften.

“And I’m not going to try and steal your fur either. Because Corvo told me you were afraid of that.” She tells him, with the determined air of a stubborn child.

"That...thank you." He’s wrong-footed yet again, but she certainly appears to mean it, at least here and now. It seems politics will be uniquely straightforward with her as Empress. And she deserves the same from him in return. "You have my word, no more killing. My men and I will put aside our swords and leave Dunwall as soon as you're safe on the throne."

"Good. That's good. That you're not going to hurt anyone else, I mean." She nods—still so serious, but slowly standing more at ease the longer they speak. Then she looks beyond him to the Whalers, who are still waiting at the doorway. “And the Spymaster’s gone now. So if you didn’t want to…to hurt Mother, or me, and you’re not going to do it anymore, you could stay here too, if you wanted.”

Stay? Is she offering him sanctuary? Does she not know everything he’s done? Actually, if he thinks about it…she’s probably young enough that she doesn’t.

“We spoke about it, upstairs.” Corvo cuts in easily. Daud had almost forgotten he was there. "As it seems we're now missing our Spymaster, there's a job here that would suit you. If you cared for it."

"Spymaster?" Neither of them looks like they're joking.

"We've few allies left." Corvo sounds grim. "And any attempts for a coup will likely happen soon after she takes the throne. We could use the help."

Daud hesitates. Not because he so desperately wants to leave Dunwall—he has nowhere particularly better waiting for him—but because this seems a poor choice for the girl in front of him. His mouth twists in self-disgust. "Won't it disturb you, having me so close?"

For a moment, he thinks she won't answer; she proves him wrong a moment later when she leans in and wraps her arms around his neck in a tentative, inexplicable hug.

Daud freezes, his heart skipping. His hands hover uselessly in the air near her sides; clearly, she'd picked up Corvo's talent for the unexpected. Her nose is cold in the join of his neck and shoulder, her muscles stiff and uncertain—uncomfortable, but determined to try anyway for reasons of her own and for this he folds his hands gently over her delicate back.

"You helped Corvo. And you said you're sorry, and you won't do it again. And...Mother said we should try and forgive people if they're going to do better." Her voice is muffled in his neck, and it quiets even more when she whispers, "I'm trying. I _am_."

Daud's heart _wrenches_. But he doesn't have the will to draw away.

“I _am_ sorry.” He breathes, with every ounce of honesty he has, and she snuffles into his skin, hugs him all the tighter.

When she draws back, scrubbing quickly at her face, Daud turns to Corvo. "I'll stay, then. And I expect most of my men will stay with me. They'll make a passable guard until you've found men you trust."

Corvo looks pleased. Emily, on the other hand, straightens up and eyes his lieutenants with a frankly assessing air.

"Excuse me," She says, this little empress who will turn the isles upside down. "I'm going to go say hello."

And she marches off. The men in the doorway look mildly concerned at her rapid approach, and as well they should be, Daud decides. Corvo steps up beside him, practically radiating amusement, though he is clearly keeping a close eye on the meeting.

"What did you tell her?" Daud growls at him.

"The truth." Corvo replies, the blandness of his tone a contest in itself.

Daud pulls in a breath, forces himself to calm down and watch his Whalers crouch down beside the little girl speaking up at them. He doesn't need to be belligerent about this, but it does need to be clear.

"It _was_ my choice, you know. To kill her." He doesn't enjoy the way Corvo's face twists, but at least he has the other man's attention. "He had my pelt, yes, but I still could have refused. I just wasn't willing to jeopardize it. I was selfish."

And scared. But that mattered very little when a whole city had suffered for it and Corvo especially so.

Corvo doesn't answer right away; he stands next to Daud and watches Emily, breathing deep. Maybe he's calming himself as well, Daud ponders—that they can speak civilly at all is an accomplishment, so some time to compose themselves isn't unreasonable.

When he speaks, though, it isn't what Daud expects.

"The mask wasn't just to frighten people, you know." He starts, his hand drifting to his coat pocket where his skull mask rests. "It was to hide my face, make sure no one could identify me. An unnecessary precaution, I thought, since I was already the most wanted man in the city. What were a few more crimes?"

"But?" Daud prompts uneasily when Corvo pauses.

"But then I remembered that Burrows had Emily." Corvo's voice is even, perhaps forcibly so. "He must have suspected that I was the masked felon, after my escape, but he couldn't be sure. If he _had_ known for certain, though, he had the perfect way to control me."

"The city would have turned against him if he revealed her just to threaten her." Daud argued.

"The citizens were already against him. He was paying the Watch; I suspect that would have been enough to keep things as they were." Corvo doesn't even sound indignant at that, just weary. "And there would have been subtler ways of sending me a message. We weren't as well hidden as we liked to think."

Daud thinks of the Overseers and understands the feeling.

"So, if he'd known about me, he could have threatened Emily to get to me." Corvo continues, implacable. "He could have forced me to do any number of things to ensure her safety. And I know myself well enough to say that I don't think I would have refused him."

"I..." Daud isn't quite sure how to react to this. A state that he's going to have to get used to with Corvo, apparently. "That's not quite the same thing. Doing it for your—for a little girl, instead of for yourself, like I did."

"Not quite." Corvo agrees, impassive. "But one life for a city's worth isn't a fair trade no matter how you look at it. No matter who she is. And yet, if it had come to it, I would have burned this city to the ground."

Daud's spine prickles. Looking at this man now, knowing the trials he's already gone through, he can believe it.

"So perhaps you did make the wrong choice. The selfish one." Corvo folds his arms tight to his chest, his dark eyes steady on the laughing girl across the room. "But under the circumstances, I likely would have done the same."

* * *

They make their way out in a tight group, each man with one eye on the young empress in their midst—not that they're still worried about the guards, but it never hurts to be safe. Daud stays closest to Corvo and Emily, ready to protect them should he need to, and is only slightly surprised when he finds her eyes fixed on him within seconds.

"Can you _really_ turn into a seal?" She bursts out, hopping down the path as though the question had been bubbling inside her and she could no longer hold it in. "Does it hurt? Where do you keep your tail?"

Rulfio laughs low and delighted nearby and Daud mentally curses both him and Corvo, who is struggling to hide a smile. He doesn't really mean it, though, not with Emily's bright, undaunted spirit, the sun in his eyes, and the wide ocean spread out below him.

 _Hope_ is almost a foreign emotion to him now, but at the moment his heart is full of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, here's the second bit, so I'll be disappearing back into the wilds for a little while. Thank you to emeraldonyxdragon for proofreading this chapter!
> 
> -Emily's first bit of dialogue was taken directly from the low chaos ending of the first game and the chapter title was lifted from the song Uma Thurman


	14. (something wild) calls you home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You're allowed to use the doors now." Corvo pointed out. "Expected to, even."_

Things slowly fell back into place.

Not all at once, of course—getting Emily back to the throne had taken some careful maneuvering without the connections the other Loyalists had brought to the table. But Corvo wasn`t without a few contacts in the City Watch. Curnow, for one, owed him enough to at least hear him out.

The Overseers were a slightly larger problem, especially with Daud and his Whalers in tow. But Corvo had known that he would need to make contingency plans as soon as he had been marked himself. And the loss of two High Overseers would, for the time being, leave them at least slightly disadvantaged.

And when they recovered from that, well, Corvo now had in his possession the little black book that had given Martin his power to begin with, pulled from the man's corpse. The man hadn't left a translation or even instructions to break the code, but Daud didn't seem to consider that much of an obstacle.

"Give Aeolos some time with it and he'll have the whole thing out." The man told him, eyes steely. And given the Whalers' relationship with the Abbey, Corvo expected they'd find plenty of ways to apply the information as well.

So between their combined expertise, the chaos of the City, and its citizens’ desperate need for a ruler, they got Emily back to the throne without much fuss. The coronation—with the Whalers looming bare-faced, but still intimidating as guards—went even smoother. Emily wasted no time clearing his name and reappointing him as Lord Protector, which he appreciated. Daud's pardon, likewise, was done quickly and publicly, though his appointment as Spymaster had been rather quiet, hidden in the chaos.

He was well-suited to the job, at least. Corvo had had disagreements with him, of course, especially as they both adapted to the new way of things, but they both seemed to be holding to a silent agreement, avoiding those most sensitive subjects between them. And Corvo could see the effect of their restraint—as the time passed and he avoided anything that could be read as a threat, Daud slowly relaxed, losing the first snap and snarl of defensive anger that he’d started out with.

The Whalers weren’t a problem either—in keeping with their past activities, they served as their own expansive network with established contacts in the city and they seemed to revel in the work. Corvo had given them the lighthouse as a base of operations—it was only a short boat ride away from the Tower and as the city would, hopefully, be reclaiming the Flooded District at some point, it seemed only prudent.

(More importantly, it kept Daud's countless men from crowding the halls of the Tower and, in doing so, turned their attention away from him. They had developed a habit of attempting to sneak up on him in those first few weeks, which tended to end badly for all involved. And the fact that the place was on the sea was...incidental, but not unnoticed.)

So now, with the worst out of the way, a cure to the plague ongoing, and a steady push towards rebuilding the City, Corvo felt as confident in Emily's safety and happiness as could be expected. He certainly wasn't complaining. It was just...

"You look like someone shot your hound." Daud's voice broke the silence of the room and Corvo jerked up from where he'd been scowling at his paperwork. The assassin slipped the rest of the way in through the open window he’d come through, utterly unselfconscious.

"You're allowed to use the doors now." Corvo pointed out. "Expected to, even."

Daud, predictably, shrugged him off. "Wouldn't want to get too out of practice. All this comfortable living."

Corvo scoffed at him, but swept his paperwork aside, grateful for the distraction for the moment. "Trouble?"

"Not as such." Daud prowled restlessly along the edge of the carpet, ignoring the nearby seats. "Though you look like you're having some yourself."

Corvo grimaced, a bit ashamed of himself, but he had few enough people he could trust not to use his words against him. And of them, Daud would likely mind his grievances the least. "I was quite happy as just the Lord Protector, you know. I was _good_ at it."

"Ah." Daud sounded a bit too amused and Corvo glared at him. "Regrets, _Lord Regent?"_

"Don't you start." Corvo growled. Daud only smirked and then finally slumped down into a chair. "I get enough of that from every courtier looking for a favor. And they're all looking for favors. You think they'd know by now that it's not going to work."

"That's nobility for you." Daud shrugged. He managed to keep his tone almost neutral, the only concession to his new position amongst said nobility. "They don't learn the same lessons as the rest of us. And they don't care to."

"I can handle them. And there's no one else to do it. I know that." Corvo added, shaking his head and trying not to sound peevish. "But sometimes—"

"Oh, don't tempt me." Daud drawled, and though Corvo shot him a sharp look, he only blinked innocently. "Anyone in particular today?"

"Not important. They didn't suggest anything illegal. Yet." Corvo narrowed his eyes at the man across from him. "You didn't come here to gossip."

"Hmm. No." Daud abruptly sobered again, fixing Corvo with a long stare. His eyes gleamed. "There's a full moon tomorrow."

Corvo blinked and then straightened. He—and Emily, at her insistence—visited the lighthouse nearly as often as Daud came to the Tower, to gather information and familiarize themselves with the many Whalers they didn't yet know. Such visits had become something of a routine, but in the past Daud had always been clear that the evenings and nights surrounding the full moon were best avoided, as he and his men would be…otherwise occupied.

He hadn't offered an explanation, but Corvo didn't really need one. He'd heard those children’s tales as well, and he probably would have been more surprised if none of Daud's men had been…other than human.

So all he said was, "I'm aware."

Daud's mouth curled up, just slightly. "Well then. Would you and the Empress like to join us at the lighthouse?"

Something sparked up Corvo's spine, a fission of surprise and perhaps something brighter. He pushed it back and narrowed his eyes, thinking it over, though he didn't bother to ask _is it safe?_ Daud wouldn't have suggested it if it wasn't.

"Sure that's a good idea?" He asked instead, more probing than truly uncertain. _Are you sure you want to do that?_

"Most of us will still be human." Daud said baldly. "And I expect both my men and your Empress will sulk if you say no."

"A tragedy, I'm sure." Corvo snorted in spite of himself. Emily usually had some Whalers guarding her, following in secret where others couldn't see, but more often than not she pulled them into ridiculous games or—away from prying eyes—magic demonstrations. Most of them seemed to have taken well to her, doting on her with the bright-eyed affection of particularly dangerous puppies.

Whereas they mostly just stared at him, if they weren't pouncing on him. He'd given up trying to understand it.

"Come on, Corvo." He couldn't tell if Daud was coaxing or goading, though his grin pointed more towards the latter. “You know you want to.”

He sighed. "Don't make me regret this."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Daud said, eyes crinkling, and then he was gone in a few curling wisps of darkness.

Corvo stared after him for a moment, still a little confused at the sudden offer. But sunset was still hours away and he had work to complete—he could tell Emily later when it wouldn't distract her from her own studies. He picked up his pen with a sigh and forced himself back to it.

Though somehow, the paperwork just didn't seem quite as arduous as before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to emeraldonyxdragon for continuing to be an excellent beta reader!


	15. (make the ground beneath you feel) like quicksand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His men are insubordinate little shits._

Daud knows his presence isn't always easy.

Corvo and Emily do their best, of course, Emily takes to his Whalers quickly enough—their willingness to indulge her is a large factor in this, he suspects. And some days she seems to take just as well to him; she asks him questions and grabs his hands and smiles at him, and he doesn't quite know what to do with her. As Spymaster, he needs a good relationship with the Empress, but this feels far more like wrangling a child who is far too interested in sussing out all his secrets.

But it isn't always like that. There are days when lack of sleep drags at her eyes and her energy, days when the smallest of things bring tears. And he sees the effort it takes to approach him then, the way she steels herself to do so. He keeps still when she does that, lets her move at her own pace, and often this seems to help.

On the worst days, she does not leave her room at all. Corvo stays with her then, and Daud handles what cannot be put off and keeps himself and his men far out of the way.

So they're all trying. Some things linger; he knows that more than most. But overall, his integration into Dunwall Tower goes relatively smoothly. (Except for the part where he spends the first month spooking every noble he comes into contact with, some of whom he’d worked for on previous occasions. But he’s certainly not complaining about that.)

Still, he thinks as he watches the late afternoon sun creep towards the horizon, perhaps that means he might have gotten a bit too comfortable already. And if he hasn’t learned by now that that’s never good, then he deserves whichever misfortune is waiting to hit him this time.

“Relax, will you?” Rulfio huffs, nudging up alongside him. “It’ll be fine. No one’s stupid enough to try to eat the Empress, even on the full moon.”

“I know that.” Daud brushes him back distractedly. “It’s just…a year ago, we would never have…”

He waves his hand, frustrated, at the Tower visible across the water. He’s not _unhappy_ —nowhere near it, if he’s honest with himself. But sometimes the dissonance hits him in the face with all the gentleness of a stone wall.

Rulfio just shrugs. “Times change, old hound. We’re changing with them.”

Though he follows up this piece of wisdom with a nudge of his elbow and the offer of, “Dodge and I can keep the girl occupied tonight, you know. If you need time to, ah, chat with the Lord Protector.”

Daud turns to glare, irritated at the oddly smug tone, but Rulfio is already halfway down the hallway, whistling a jaunty tune.

His men are insubordinate little shits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big cheer and a thank you to emeraldonyxdragon for beta-ing
> 
> titles for both Ch14 and Ch15 taken from the song "Something Wild" by Lindsey Stirling. It was the song that turned this story idea into actual selkie fic. I recommend giving it a listen :)


	16. i must go down to the seas again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A huff sounded behind him, a curl of warm breath across his neck, and with it came the scent of fur and musk. He turned around, very carefully._

Daud met them at the far docks at dusk—the sun was already behind the horizon, the last shreds of light fading from the sky. It was a bit of a walk up to the lighthouse proper, which let Emily work off some of her boundless energy. Though Corvo expected, by the way Daud kept one eye on the moon, that it wasn't only for her sake.

“Are we going to hunt things?” Emily seemed quite hopeful that this would be the case, skipping and balancing up on her toes in a way that would have had Callista scolding her about royal decorum. She’d had another leap in height, Corvo noticed; her limbs were now so long and thin that she looked likely to trip over them at any moment.

“There’s nothing to hunt here.” Corvo said—not for the first time either. Though he took a quick glance at the beach around them, just in case. “At least, there wasn’t last time I was here."

“Relax, Corvo.” Daud said, though he looked a bit tense himself. “Nothing’s going to come leaping out at you, I promise.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” Corvo grumbled, cutting his gaze to the young Empress further down the path, who was glaring back at them for their slow pace.

But of course Emily wasn't worried at all. In fact, once she reached the gatehouse courtyard, she was _delighted_.

"Oh." She said as they walked through the gate, and Corvo caught sight of the source of her awe a second later. A wolf—long-legged and sharp-toothed, easily over twice the size of the Overseers' hounds—had risen to meet them. Emily tore herself away from him, racing across the courtyard to throw her arms around the wolf's neck with a determined disregard for the sheer danger of it.

It was actually larger than her, Corvo noted with alarm, its head looming over hers and their shoulders brushing. He almost moved to run after her before he pulled himself back, forcing calm back over his worries. It wasn't actually a wolf, he reminded himself. It was one of Daud's men—probably Thomas or Rulfio if he had learned correctly from eavesdropping. She wasn't in any danger.

Two more wolves joined the first, to Emily's audible pleasure, and once he saw how carefully they nudged at her with their large heads, he let them be and turned to survey the courtyard. Most of Daud's men were still on two legs; some were just watching, but others were sparring or cooking, and one large group had what looked to be a game of cards going on in a corner.

And, spotted here and there in the crowd, Corvo caught sight of what Daud had been guarding those past few months.

There were two horses slowly circling the courtyard, weaving through the men and stretching out their legs, conspicuously out of place on the rocky island; their manes looked oddly patchy, he noticed, and for some reason they were dripping wet. Then along the nearby walls he caught the occasional flash of spotted grey fur and a flexible tail—a cat of some kind, he decided, though prodigiously large for a housecat.

A scraping, rustling noise on the roof drew his gaze upwards and—he froze. There was _something_ stretched out along the roof encircling the courtyard, a dark shadow distorting the line of at least half the roof in the gloom. One end of the shadow shifted and stretched, with the eerie, flashing glint that was light reflecting off an animal's eye.

A huff sounded behind him, a curl of warm breath across his neck, and with it came the scent of fur and musk. He turned around, very carefully.

There was a bear standing behind him, shaggy and huge, the kind he'd only seen in books. The top of his head didn't even reach its back and he leaned back involuntarily as it stepped in close, snuffling and squinting at him like a half-blind beggar. His heart was in his throat, beating a quick time, but only a small part of it was fear—with the warmth and weight and _heat_ of the animal in front of him, a living folktale sniffing at his coat, awe was very difficult to avoid.

The bear, finally satisfied, shifted around him and padded slowly over towards Emily, and Corvo glanced back at Daud. The Spymaster was subtly watching him, he noted, though not with amusement at his discomfort as he might have expected. It was closer to concern, to wariness--protectiveness, Corvo decided, and he smiled to himself.

"I'm impressed." He said, leaning in and keeping his voice low. Daud's head tilted towards his words, but they both kept their eyes on Emily as the wolves started a gentle wrestling match. "It's one thing to know they exist, but to actually see them..."

He stifled a smile as Daud visibly perked up like a proud parent. Well, Corvo couldn't poke too much fun—he was hardly subtle with Emily anymore.

The smallest wolf howled, a full-throated, echoing ululation that both rose the hair on Corvo's neck and brought a grin to his lips. Emily, shameless and wild with excitement, lifted her head and howled with him, her clear human voice two octaves higher and unwavering.

"Come on, Corvo!" She called back to him as the wolves took to their feet. She dashed off after them as they fled through the gates, dust kicking back at her heels. As though this was a signal, Daud's waiting men sprang after them, leaping and Blinking away with whoops of excitement. Corvo, feeling his age for a moment, shed his coat first and draped it over the nearby steps.

"You're never going to get rid of her now." He informed Daud truthfully, his tone as fatalistic as he could manage, and then he pulled up power to chase her down.

But by the way the man was smiling as he raised his own hand, Corvo had the feeling Daud really didn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA! You thought it would be another 3 months, didn't you?  
> (I totally cheated, just split two long chapters into four. Here's the second part of the last update, all cleaned up) 
> 
> Thank you, emeraldonyxdragon, for being such an awesome beta!


	17. for the call of the running tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well? What are you waiting for?_

"Thought there wasn't anything to hunt here." Corvo's voice, not quite accusatory, breaks into Daud's thoughts and almost makes him jump.

He looks over to find the Lord Protector has joined him at the top of the rocks overlooking the beach—and far down the sand beyond him, the frantic thrashing of a young gazelle as three men and two wolves bring it down to the sand. Other Whalers, resting or wandering on the rocks and beach as the mood takes them, shout encouragement.

"You're the one who said it, not me." Daud points out, but he glances away to find Emily all the same, even as he relents and explains, "A few of the younger ones made a trip inland and brought back some game. They wanted to add some excitement."

Thankfully, he finds Emily far out of the way of any possible carnage, as he'd planned; she’s perched high on Jenkins' back as the bear pads through the shallow water, occasionally lunging for nearby hagfish and entirely ignoring the weight of two other Whalers sitting with her. She squeals with delight whenever her fantastical mount moves unexpectedly and his men flail to make sure she doesn't fall off. Further out in the water, he can see Kent and Anatole keeping an eye on her as well; kelpies aren't as fond of the salt water, he knows, but they're making an exception tonight. 

It’ll irritate her if she realizes that she’s being distracted—she claims she isn’t squeamish when the subject comes up, that blood doesn’t bother her, but Daud doesn’t think a large, gory mess in the presence of his Whalers is the best route to take either. So distraction it is.

"You don't usually confine yourselves to the island, then?" Corvo says, approaching until they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“Not with this many of us. We’ll go inland ourselves, or back to the Flooded District.” Daud glances sideways at him, unable to help wondering at the line of questioning. “They were willing to give it up for Emily, to keep her in a safe space, but it’s a bit small for a proper run.”

As if to prove his point, a shadow ripples over them, punctuated by the faintest breeze and the rustle of wings. Quinn curves in the air between them and the moon, a whipcord-thin body and vast, oversized wings blocking out the light for a second or two. Then the moment is gone and she moves on, humming low in her throat in a constant, simple song that sinks into Daud’s bones and lingers even after the sound has faded.

He shivers, the nape of his neck prickling. He can feel the swelling air in his throat, his lungs, the urge to sing along with her twisting his tongue. But he doesn’t know her songs, and this form isn’t right—and the Lord Protector is standing right there.

Corvo is already looking at him, he finds when he turns to check. The man’s eyes are opaque, silver and darkness in the moonlight. His face holds its usual composure, but his voice is softer when he asks, “And you? Is this how you usually spend these nights?”

Daud freezes and then relaxes again, a split second flinch that he still can’t quite shake and that he knows the other man didn’t miss. Corvo hasn’t avoided the subject of Daud’s other form, exactly, but neither has he pushed for details. It’s a restraint that Daud appreciates, but it also leaves him without a clear idea of the intentions behind the question. He wavers, uncharacteristically uncertain, and Corvo seems to sense it.

“If I know Emily, she’ll begin to wear out in another hour or two,” he says, wry affection creeping in the way it always does. “So we could return to the Tower soon if we’re…if our presence is…”

He wavers there himself, mouth twisting, but his meaning is clear enough. Daud sucks in a breath and huffs, surprised and almost…touched.

“Stay, Corvo. I invited you, didn’t I? You’re not disturbing anything.” The words are out before he really thinks them through, but he does mean them. He stares down at Jenkins tearing a hagfish in half and offers his own honesty. “I haven’t swum with the others in…a long time. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“That’s good.” Corvo’s shoulder brushes against his ever so slightly as the wind picks up. “Why, then?”

“Well, some of it was Burrows.” But it’s not a true answer and Daud jerks his shoulders to loosen them, irritated anew by his own hesitancy. “Hiding was one of the first things I learned as a child. And it was one of the most important, no matter that I was terrible at it. Having so many people _know_ , it’s…”

Terrifying. Exhilarating. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions that he doesn’t know how to sort through and shouldn’t have at all, considering fear is the only reasonable response. He sighs softly and voices the thought that’s been itching at him. “I should have started running months ago.”

“Hm. Maybe.” Corvo agrees, looking down at Emily as well. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

It takes that a moment to register properly and then his heart skips a beat; he turns to stare at Corvo, off-kilter. But the other man is still staring down at his daughter, unconcerned as though he hasn’t said anything out of the ordinary, and Daud abruptly wants to shake him.

“Why did you ask?” His tone is too harsh, too challenging, but he can’t seem to soften it. “Were you hoping to watch?”

He wants to kick himself for it immediately afterwards—it’s a poor response under any circumstances—but Corvo simply leans his head back thoughtfully and then says, “I _would_ like to see you in your whole self someday. If you were ever comfortable with it.”

It’s an honest answer, and only that—there’s no sense of expectation in it, no demand. There never has been, really, with Corvo and Daud’s chest squeezes sharp, leaving him suddenly breathless.

“Give me a minute.” He says, abrupt before he can talk himself out of it, and ignores the way Corvo swivels to stare at him as he transverses off the rock.

The climb to the top of the lighthouse doesn’t take him very long; he knows all the shortcuts and quick paths by now. His current hiding spot is up on the roof at the lighthouses highest point, his pelt safely secured and a few traps added in for good measure. He’ll move it to a new spot again in a week, as had become his habit.

He sits there for a moment when he pulls it out, passing his hands through the fur ( _Void, he’s an idiot, he shouldn’t even be considering this, why, why, why—_ ) and then he slings it over his shoulders and makes his way back down.

The squeal Emily makes when he pokes his head out of the water is gratifying.

 _“Daud!”_ She flings herself wildly off Jenkins to the startled curses of his men and splashes down into the shallows next to him. She ends up practically lying in the water, draped along his side with her arms around his neck, but her happiness is palpable and Daud doesn’t really mind the touch. “You could have _said_ something, you know!”

She flops back to sit in the water next to him, grinning with wide, eager eyes and Jenkins' cold nose pokes at his ear with a small snuffle. He wards the bear off with a small flash of teeth, but his heart clearly isn’t in it, as Jenkins just snorts and butts gently against his muzzle. He hears Kent and Anatole huffing behind him as they emerge from the water—he'd never truly had the chance to try swimming with them and so he bears their interested nosing with a little more tolerance. 

Then he looks up past him to the rocks he just left and finds Corvo’s silhouette against the sky. No doubt the man is watching them closely, but Daud can’t see his expression at all and so he barks, an invitation and a demand together.

_Well? What are you waiting for?_

Another bark answers him and then the wolves come charging by, splashing into the shallows with abandon and assaulting him with lolling tongues and swinging tails. There’s still some blood on their fur, he notes, but a little longer in the water will see it off.

“—going to catch cold, your Majesty!” Aeolos, still perches up on Jenkins, has dragged Emily back out of the water and wrapped her in his coat, holding her there despite her wriggling protests. And Daud can hear his men speaking beyond that, a low bubble of voices as the crowd follows the wolves' slapdash charge down the beach.

But despite the fact that few of them had ever seen him like this, even if they'd known of it, they raise no sort of fuss. He gets a few glances, a few ducked heads and whispers, but none of it feels malicious—more the sort of nerves the younger ones display when asked to stand guard in the throne room. And most of them simply greet him with waves and calls, or pass him by entirely, more focused on enjoying their night of freedom.

He relaxes a little more with each passing moment of calm in spite of himself, and he barely blinks when Corvo appears shin-deep in the water next to him with a flicker of gold and blue. He raises his head further out of the water, seeking out the other man's eyes and finds Corvo smiling at him, a flash of teeth in the moonlight.

Then Dodge bounces into him, splashing and nipping in his usual enthusiasm—an invitation to play, one Daud hasn't allowed the chance for in...too long. He hears Corvo snort beside him and, suddenly welling with a bright, content feeling and a renewed eagerness to enjoy the night, he turns and lunges, inserting himself neatly behind the man's legs and sending him tumbling backwards into the cold water.

Corvo comes up sputtering, dripping and spitting out water with a comically betrayed look on his face and Daud whuffs amusement back at him, echoing Emily's giggles. He nips Corvo's wrist—gentle, _very_ gentle—offering an invitation of his own, and dodges back when the man splashes water at his face, cursing him in Serkonan with laughter beneath the words.

"But I want to see his _tail_." Emily argues, still squirming. "Daud. _Daud!_ May I see your tail? Pretty please? And your whiskers!"

There's a smell of cooked meat floating over the beach, some Whalers taking advantage of the pause in movement to cook the hunted game, warming the beach with firelight and conversation. And there are other legs in the water, some of his more adventurous men wading bootless into the shallows with caution, uncertain eyes still watching out for the hagfish that have already fled. He could catch them some fish to cook as well, Daud realizes, and keep guard if any of them wanted to go deeper, to swim, and just maybe, if he’s lucky, there might be singing. And he breathes it all in for a long, bright moment because it's all just...just...

Home.

* * *

 

Dawn is starting to turn the sky grey by the time Daud hauls himself out of the water for the last time. The men that haven't returned to their beds already are sprawled out higher on the shore around fires or across rocks, dotting the long line of the beach with slumbering assassins and a few lonely lookouts.

Jenkins is stretched out on this particular section, a looming mountain of dark fur—and, curled on his back, a small girl wrapped in a Whaler coat, her hair crusted with salt and sand, deeply asleep.

It's not her Daud's aiming for, though; Corvo is sitting beside them, leaning back against the bear's side, head tilted into the fur. His eyes are closed, Daud sees when he gets closer and he stops there, wondering if he should leave them be. But perhaps the scrape of sand had alerted him, or he hadn’t been asleep at all, because after a moment Corvo opens his eyes.

He finds Daud and perks up, sitting up straighter against the bear behind him. Daud takes this as permission and moves again, lumbering closer as best he can. He hears Corvo chuckle softly and glares at the man—he knows what he looks like, moving on land, but he can still hold his own easily enough—and the Lord Protector raises his palms in surrender.

"I meant no offense." He says, and only smiles wider when Daud snorts at him. "Truly. I doubt I'm very graceful in the water, and you move through that like a dancer. I won't poke fun if you don't."

Daud grumbles with no heat behind it and turns as he reaches Corvo, curving back so they're both facing the ocean. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and twists his head in time to see Corvo jerk his hands into his lap, as though he'd started to reach out and then caught himself. The man catches him looking and actually flushes, just slightly.

"Sorry." The Lord Protector adds, apologizing for something he didn't even do, and Daud blinks at him, as bemused as ever by this man.

Then he stops, and he thinks about it, and he shifts—a few inches forwards, a few to the side, so that he is laying with his side and shoulder curled against Corvo's thigh, his flipper and fur pressing into damp cloth. He feels Corvo stiffen in surprise and he drops his chin with deliberate nonchalance onto the man's knee, resting his head there with his eyes looking out over the waves.

His skin is prickling with uncertainty, fur bristling ever so slightly along his spine as he waits to see if Corvo will move. Daud isn't usually one for physical contact in either form, but the other man smells properly of the sand and salt water, his human warmth lurking underneath and...it's Corvo. Somehow, here and now, that makes it different. Easier than it should be.

After a second or two of frozen silence, Corvo relaxes, breath leaving him in a near silent sigh. Another second, and his hand gingerly settles against Daud's back, taking the implicit permission to touch. His fingers flinch back once before settling, as though he'd expected a shock or a bite and Daud lets out a small rumble, leaning more heavily against Corvo's leg.

"It felt different. When you weren’t wearing it, I mean." Corvo says, his voice so low it might be a whisper. And normally even the thought of someone else holding his skin is enough to spark both fear and anger, but though Daud's heart picks up for a moment, he doesn't think it's either. "I don't think I ever could have kept it."

He spreads and slides his fingers, ruffling slow and careful through the fur of Daud's back and stops at his ribs, fingers slightly crooked and his arm stretched over Daud's back. And there he stays, like he doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon.

They rest there together and watch the sun rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to emeraldonyxdragon for beta reading all four of the last chapters in one go.


	18. is a wild call and a clear call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Daud squinted at him. "I'm not seeing the problem."_   
>    
>  _"There's no **problem**. It's just—" Corvo gestured, frustrated. "—parenting."_   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know if I'm 100% satisfied with this one, but it's going up anyways. Any concrit welcome! And finally Corvo gets his long chapter to balance out Daud's.

Corvo, of course, turned out to be right. It was impossible to keep Emily away from the lighthouse after that.  
  
Really, none of them tried all that hard. As she grew older and taller, her responsibilities grew, lessons becoming more advanced and segueing into tentative meetings and holding court with her people. The inevitable consequence was that she began to sober, the skip in her step and her ever-present grin calming into the regal stride and confident countenance of an Empress.  
  
It was something of a comfort, then, to see her skipping along the beaches in the light of the moon: launching into tumbles with the wolves, carefully petting the kelpies, and falling asleep encrusted in salt and sand. She was at her most carefree then, and it always lightened Corvo's heart to see.  
  
That was hardly the only time they visited the lighthouse, either. She'd been interested in learning to fight for years—after Burrows, that desire had only increased, and Corvo hadn't needed much wheedling to agree. He handled much of her training personally, but he saw no reason not to utilize the Whalers for...less conventional training.  
  
Fighting against a group was difficult enough on its own, and fighting a groups of _witches_ was another problem entirely. Corvo had lost to the Whalers himself, after all, when he'd been powerless. And as their powers differed from his, it seemed only prudent to have her practice against friendly witches while she could.

In that spirit, he'd taken advantage of their expertise, and learned a few things himself.  
  
Emily took the bruises and losses well. She grew used to scaling rooftops and practice ambushes in the dead of night, and Corvo could see with every improvement that she'd be able to challenge him in her own right, soon enough. It was also clear that the Whalers were happy to help her refine _other_ skills that weren't usually encouraged in an Empress.  
  
She was more nimble than she had any right to be, and she'd gotten a little too good at picking his pocket. He knew exactly who to blame, but it was difficult to protest. It was better to have the skills and not need them than the other way around, after all.

It was hardly a conventional upbringing for an Empress—dueling with assassins and running wild in the night—but after everything, he doubted she'd be a very conventional Empress anyway.  
  
Daud never joined in her practice fights; Corvo figured it wasn't coincidence that the Whalers never wore their masks during the sessions either. Still, Emily wasn't an unobservant girl, and while she never did ask him for a spar, she seemed to have no trouble pestering the assassin with every other question and request under the sun.  
  
Which was how Corvo found himself spending several days floating out near the mouth of the Wrenhaven where the water was nearly clear, watching Rulfio coach Emily through clumsy strokes. Daud circled easily around all three of them with lazy flicks of his tail, keeping the hagfish away.  
  
Swimming _was_ an important skill to have, and certainly she needed to practice—Corvo had taught her a simple paddle in the palace tubs many, many years ago, but it was more to keep her afloat than to move her with speed.

Still, though she took to it with the same determination as everything else, he had the sneaking feeling that her request for lessons had more to do with drawing _Daud_ out and into the water. She'd never entirely lost her fascination there, and Corvo couldn't really blame her for it.  
  
A black, shimmering outline circled below, larger than any one of them, and even the rowboats besides. After a few moments of shifting and turning, Daud surfaced next to him with a small crest of water, a thick, rubbery eel caught neatly in his sizeable teeth.  
  
The selkie arched his neck and blinked at him, eyes dark all through, head tilted as though in question. Corvo smiled and resisted the urge to run a hand along the dappled spots of Daud's neck. "I hope that's not for me."  
  
Daud snorted at him, slitted nostrils flaring wide, and then swung his head and smacked the eel against the surface of the water. Another swing, and he tore off a chunk of flesh in his jaws, gnawing on it happily as he let the rest of the corpse float next to him.  
  
It was both amusing and a little disgusting, but Corvo floated along and watched with a smile as Emily threw peeks their way. Daud looked like he was having _fun_ , rare enough as that was, and still he somehow managed grace despite the flailing, smooth in the water as he threw his massive bulk into the swings.  
  
Daud caught him looking on the next bite and made a questioning noise, a high, fluting hum in his throat that made the back of Corvo's neck prickle.  
  
No, he really couldn't blame Emily at all.

* * *

  
  
"A few of my men are leaving," Daud told him one night.  
  
Corvo cracked one eye open and peered over with only slight interest. It was late, and they'd abandoned his office for the armchairs in his quarters instead. Between the comfort of his position, the blazing fire nearby keeping the winter chill away, and the inner warmth from the half-finished glass of whiskey in his hand, he felt singularly disinclined to actually focus.  
  
It wasn't that unusual a scene, though they weren't usually _quite_ so idolent. Meetings between them were frequent by necessity; the nature of their respective positions practically demanded it. As time went on, though, it was easy to meet somewhere a little more comfortable—to talk over a meal or a drink instead of a desk, and then to let the end of the business talk slide into more idle discussions.  
  
It couldn't be just proximity, though. In all his years working with Burrows, Corvo had never felt the urge to let the barriers of professionalism slide even a little. Repeated exposure had only strengthened them, really.  
  
"Leaving?" He asked, a little muzzy and not really following.  
  
"Next week. Three of them." Daud told him. He didn't sound very concerned about it, so Corvo didn't bother to rouse himself more. "Wanderlust, mostly, I think. They've gotten restless."  
  
"You don't sound surprised."  
  
"I expected to lose far more back at the start. Didn't think they'd take so easily to the change." Daud shrugged lazily. "These three gave it a chance, and they're not holding anything sensitive. I'll not force them to stay."  
  
"No." Corvo agreed. Keeping reluctant, disgruntled spies would only come back to bite them in the end. It did bring up a question, though.  
  
"And you?" He asked, and put up his free hand when Daud eyed him sidelong. "I'm asking honestly. This was hardly your first choice of career, I think. I wouldn't blame you for feeling a bit of wanterlust yourself."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere." Daud said simply. "Or was that a hint, Lord Protector?"  
  
His lips curled up slightly as he spoke, but Corvo knew that if he ever truly stated—or even implied—that he wanted Daud gone, the other man would comply. And while he'd accept it if the man himself wanted to leave at some point, driving him off prematurely was the last thing on his mind.  
  
So he answered honestly. “Of course not. I enjoy your company.”  
  
Daud’s head tilted and he stared for a moment, but then his smile deepened past wry into something...softer, almost fond. “Well, no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

“And now I’m not certain which of us you’re trying to insult.”

He woke up the next morning still in the chair, with a terrible crick in his neck and heavy blanket tucked neatly over his legs.

* * *

 

Corvo blinked at the item lying innocuously in the middle of his desk. Then, with careful fingers, he reached out to pick it up.  
  
It was a shell, two halves open on a hinge like butterfly wings; the outside was a rough brown-black, but the insides were smooth and irridescent, shimmering hues of blue and purple that inescapably reminded Corvo of the Void. He ran his thumb around the curved edge, feeling chips and imperfections catching at his skin, and then laid it back down on the desk.  
  
When Daud came by later that evening, Corvo pointed at it and asked, "What's that for?"  
  
The assassin stopped short and blinked at it for a moment.  
  
"Not for anything." He said then. "Just thought you might like it."  
  
"Oh." Corvo stared at him. Most of the gifts he received these days were from nobles attempting to sway favor. To be given something simply on a whim was...gratifying. "Well, thank you."  
  
Daud shrugged it off, as he so often did with thanks, but his usual tense expression had softened a little.  
  
When the second one appeared on his desk weeks later—delicate and cream-colored, with ridges that swirled to a point and bands of burnt orange—he picked it up with a smile. But he also couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was missing something.

* * *

   
  
Corvo officially stepped down as Dunwall's Lord Regent on Emily's sixteenth birthday, an occasion that was somehow a relief and yet utterly terrifying.

He was certainly ready to give it up—had never stopped wanting to, in fact—but then he stood in front of Emily in her ceremonial regalia and his heart wrenched. Her face was painted, her dark hair upswept and wrestled into perfection, but she smiled at him with her same impish twist.  
  
It was impossible not to see the shadow of her mother in every word and gesture.  
  
She still spoke like a youth—just the smallest bit of hesitation here and there, a bit too high in her timbre—but she held all the confidence she'd gained along with her years of lessons, and she accepted the crown with a dip that held all her fighter's grace. Bittersweet though it was, he'd never been prouder.  
  
He caught Daud's eye only once, where the man stood in the Spymaster's proper position behind the throne. He'd been wrangled into his dress uniform for the occasion as well, and managed to look fantastically uncomfotable even without moving a muscle. Corvo doubted it was all the uniform either.  
  
They were all relieved when the ceremony was over, he was sure.  
  
She had her first true ball that night, as befitted a young Empress, so it was long into the dark of the morning before she finally retired and he could slip outside the palace. He made his way through the gardens with one hand over his breast pocket, feeling the faint, quivering tremors barely shifting the cloth.  
  
It didn't really surprise him to find Daud already standing in the pavilion when he reached it.  
  
He slowed for a moment, observing. The other man had his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed. He might have been speaking, but even in the silence of the gardens, Corvo couldn't hear any words. He waited a few moments, but when Daud showed no signs of moving, he walked closer, scuffing his boots purposefully across the path.  
  
Daud turned immediately, eyes wide in the faint light still gleaming from the Tower. He stepped back as Corvo entered the pavilion, clearly about to excuse himself, and so Corvo spoke up before he could move further.  
  
"I think the nobility were hoping to be rid of me entirely." He said, and made sure Daud could hear the front of humor in his voice. He really wasn't looking for a fight, and the tautness of the other man's shoulders was making his own neck ache. "I had more than a few ask if Emily would be picking a new Lord Protector as well."  
  
"She is past the age for it." Daud pointed out neutrally, letting Corvo stand at his shoulder.  
  
"I've been keeping an eye on a few candidates." Corvo agreed. "She should have the early years to bond with them, if she can, but not until I'm convinced whoever she chooses will be able to hold their own. I thought you might be able to help me with that."  
  
"Of course," Daud said, steadfast if still distant. ""Give me the best ones and we'll see about getting them up to par."  
  
Then they both fell silent and stared down at the memorial in front of them. The quiet was strained, almost uncomfortable—a stark enough contrast to their usual state that Corvo was actually surprised. He had stopped noticing the ease they shared, until reminders like this nudged them apart again.  
  
Finally, Corvo drew in a breath. "Daud—"  
  
"Don't." Daud said, implacable, but he raised a hand and brushed it lightly against Corvo's elbow as he turned away again. "Goodnight, Corvo."  
  
Corvo watched him go, something heavy in his chest, and then turned back to the memorial stone. One deep breath, in and out, and he knelt down, reaching inside his coat to bring out the Heart.

It was darker than he remembered, and its pulse was far more sluggish, each trembling beat an effort. He cupped it in his hands, the clench of his stomach somewhere between revulsion and longing. For a moment, he thought of squeezing it.

In the end, he laid it down on the memorial stone and put his hands back in his lap.

“She’s going to be extraordinary,” he murmured into the night's echoing silence. “And we'll keep her safe, I promise. Rest, Jessamine.”

Then he closed his eyes and breathed through his grief, and listened as the Heart's faint beating slowly began to fade away.

* * *

 

Daud seemed to withdraw a little after that.  
  
It wasn't that they hadn't talked about Jessamine's death before now. Carefully, and in small doses, perhaps, but it was hardly something they could have just _ignored_. With a start as shaky as theirs, their foundations needed to be solid. They'd spent long, difficult evenings in just such conversations, shackled though they were by the depths of Daud's regret and Corvo's grief.  
  
So it made Daud's reticence now...not puzzling, exactly. There were things they'd never be able to fix. But frustrating, perhaps.  
  
_Talk to me_. Corvo wanted to say, when the silence stretched on too long or Daud drew away the way he hadn’t in years. _I'll listen. We'll work through this, too._  
  
_Don't leave._  
  
It seemed almost twisted, that worry, considering the issue at hand. But Daud had become a pillar, someone Corvo could _trust_ , however strange the circumstances, and there were so few people he could say the same for now. So while he'd promised he wouldn't hold Daud here if he wanted to leave, the thought of replacing him was...unpleasant.  
  
That didn't seem the right sort of thing to come out and say to him, though, not if Corvo was trying to _calm_ his nerves.  
  
So he waited instead, as patient as he could be. He offered conversation, and their usual easy spars. He came to the lighthouse when he had the free time, to walk the familiar paths together or to sit in the shallows in the evening and watch the billow and splash of Daud's dance in the water.  
  
He did venture once to speak, when it finally seemed right to do so—as he sat cross-legged in shallow water while the waves surged and receeded past his knees and palms, Daud swept up beside him and, for the first time in months, offered him a shell.  
  
He reached out and tugged the small circle from Daud's gentle teeth. It was a muddy burgundy color, lightweight and rough against his fingers.  
  
"I forgive you, you know." He said, before he could overthink it. “I forgave you years ago.”

Daud's head came up immediately, a clear nonverbal protest, and Corvo held up a hand.

He thought he understood the urge to protest. The words didn't really seem to encompass the struggle in the concept: their complicated ties and the years now behind them that allowed them to form something more. The conscious, continual reaffirmment of the decision to forgive, day by day reaching beyond their past.  
  
"I know you made the choice to kill her," He said, remembering Daud's insistence, "and I _also_ know the circumstances. Deciding to forgive you for it is _my_ choice, regardless of whether you accept it, or think it's deserved."  
  
He didn't expect Daud to take it as absolution, or even to understand the decision. But it was important to say anyway.  
  
He rested his hand back on his knee and focused on the water. "Whatever your opinion, I thought you should know."  
  
For a moment, he thought Daud might leave, by the frozen stiffness of the seal at his side. He let the silence lie, though, certain now that he'd spoken that it had been the right decision. And after a moment, he heard a sigh, and there came the gentlest brush of a wet, soft nose and prickling whiskers against his hand.  
  
Corvo tucked the shell down into his pocket and slipped a familiar arm across Daud's broad back. The water was beginning to chill him, but for now he was happy to stay where he was.

* * *

 

The first time Emily slept through a full moon was somehow bittersweet. On one hand, she was growing older and increasingly more responsible. Between ruling, lessons, and her fighting practice, she'd learned to admit now when she was tired, and she couldn't afford to stumble in her meetings the next day for lack of sleep. But on the other hand...  
  
Well, she was growing older.  
  
Corvo still went—it had long since become a high point of his months—but the lack of Emily's enthusiasm was still starkly apparent. Even the Whalers seemed less amused with their pastimes than they usually did.  
  
He wandered down to the shoreline in the end, melancholy in a way he couldn't name. The kelpies, curled up together on the rocks nearby, barely shifted their heads, but after a minute or two of standing at the edge of the water, Daud surfaced in the shallows. The selkie dragged himself closer to the sand, half out of the water, and barked at Corvo once, demanding as usual.  
  
"What?" Corvo sighed at him and Daud huffed, tossing his head impatiently.  
  
Corvo almost didn't see it happen—there was rather less fanfare than he'd imagined there would be, whenever he'd thought about it. There was a twist of movement, a shift of muscle that wasn't _quite_ right, and then Daud was human again, laid out on his front with the folds of his pelt draped over his back, half on the sand and half in the water.  
  
Corvo's breath caught, cold sparks shivering up his spine. He'd told Daud once that he'd like to see it, true, but he hadn't ever really expected to.  
  
Daud pushed himself up on his elbows, his short hair bristling into wet spikes, his dark eyes liquid and gleaming in the faint light of the moon. The pelt slid down, leaving his shoulders and chest bare and beading with water as the fur bunched up along the gentle curve of his back, and Corvo couldn't help thinking—  
  
_Oh._  
  
Hmm.  
  
"You're moping, aren't you?" Daud accused him, and Corvo jerked his eyes back up.    
  
"I don't know what—" He stopped bothering when Daud raised an eyerbow at him and flopped down to sit on the sand. "She's almost as tall as I am, now. I only noticed this morning."  
  
Daud squinted at him. "I'm not seeing the problem."  
  
"There's no _problem_. It's just—" Corvo gestured, frustrated. "—parenting."  
  
"Ah." Daud said, his eyes flicking higher to the lighthouse. "Well, I can't help you there either, but I've a bottle of whiskey upstairs if you'd rather spend the night indoors."  
  
"Bless you." He said, and resolutely ignored the way his spine prickled when Daud smirked at him.  
  
"I'll meet you there." Daud shifted, the barest flash of further skin before he hiked his fur back up and over his head. The change was more obvious this time, but Corvo would have been hard put to describe it. Another moment of not-quite-right, like the water of the Void spilling forever skywards, and then Daud was a seal once more, flippers and fangs and sleek animal muscle.  
  
Daud nodded once before slipping back into the water, and Corvo sat for a moment longer, resisting the strong urge to bury his face in his hands.

* * *

 

He lingered in his own thoughts rather more often than usual in the following weeks. 

Perhaps it would have been wiser to ignore it and move on. He’d never been good at that, though—now that the thought had come fully to mind, he couldn't simply pretend it hadn't. But there were _issues_ here. So many issues.  
  
Their past, of course, which made the sparks of guilt and confusion almost inevitable. But he knew his own mind, his own heart, and while he was perhaps a bit unsettled, he wasn't ashamed. Not of Daud and not of himself. They'd come too far for that.

He wasn’t even particularly _surprised_ , come to think of it. There were few people closer to him than the old assassin, these days.  
  
He thought he knew some of the concerns that _Daud_ would likely have, though, and Corvo wasn’t sure about the wisdom of trying to convince him otherwise. Between their positions and his knowledge of the man’s vulnerabilities, he was just as aware of the power imbalance as he had been with Jessamine on the other side of it.

Sensible thoughts did little to stop a wayward heart, though, and his mind turned circles on itself: so many ways such a thing could go, and oh so many ways it could go wrong.  
  
He'd still thought he'd done a reasonable job of not letting his new disquiet affect his actions for the most part. But when Daud began to grow quiet and watch him more closely—not quite wary, not yet, but still careful—he knew he hadn't been as successful as he might have liked. He was probably lucky the Whalers hadn't started poking their noses in yet.

And they would, if he didn’t settle himself one way or the other.

He took another few days—for a lengthy, serious conversation with Emily, most importantly, and to be sure he wasn’t acting in haste. Then he pulled together his courage and forced himself to stop dawdling.

Blunt was usually best with Daud, he’d learned over the years. So when Daud joined him in his office the next night, just a little guarded in his eyes and his walk, Corvo sat them both down by the fire with a glass and then simply _asked._

It was gratifying to watch Daud’s solid expression crack. The fact that it shifted quickly to confusion was...less so.

“Hold on,” he said, head tilting as though Corvo was talking in tongues, “are you asking if I’m open to _courting?”_

“If you like,” Corvo replied, taken aback in turn. He’d not thought Daud inclined towards anything so formal. “I more wanted to know if you were open to _any_ overtures, to start.”

“Oh.” Daud frowned, and then Corvo caught the shift of his face, confusion to disbelief as he finally _got_ it. “ _Wait._ Corvo—”

He shook his head. “I know what I’m asking, believe me; I’ve thought about it long enough. So, if you can’t accept—or even if you’re simply not interested—I will absolutely understand.”

He breathed against the anxious beating of his heart as Daud stared at him, almost blank except for the shadow of utter bewilderment. “It isn’t that I’m not _interested_ —”

He stopped, face twisting as though he hadn’t meant to say it, and words seemed to evade him after that. Corvo firmly pushed his own spark of hope to the back of his mind as Daud finally leaned back, the tired lines of his face deepening in the firelight. “I just don’t understand how _you_ could want... _this_.”

“Should I let our past keep me from trying for happiness now?” Corvo murmured, and watched Daud straighten up again. “My forgiveness wasn’t just empty words, Daud.”

“And that’s enough?” Daud demanded.

“I _know_ you.” Corvo said, because honesty was the only way to do this. “I enjoy your company, and I know that if I need you, you’ll be there. What else could I ask for?”

His stomach was squirming—he wanted to pace, or to hide behind his glass. He wasn’t accustomed to speaking like this, not anymore, and the openness of it was a special kind of uncomfortable.

Daud seemed just as unsettled, though, if for different reasons. His jaw worked as though he wanted to argue, but he only furrowed his brow and looked down at his hands. Corvo bit back any words that came to mind and turned to the fire instead, sipping at his whisky and allowing Daud a fraction of the time he himself had had to think.

Finally, after a few silent, endless minutes of thought, Daud looked back up and the wary disbelief had dimmed.

He looked...considering, _calculating_ , and Corvo’s heart jumped again.

“So, what if it all goes horribly wrong?” He said, with a hint of his usual humor. Corvo quirked a smile in reply.

“If it’s not working, we stop.” He shrugged. Certainly he’d thought of things to keep an eye on. “I think we’re both professional enough to keep it from affecting our work.”

Easier said than done, perhaps, but they were neither of them inclined towards histrionics. They’d just have to take things one step at a time.

“Thought it through, then, haven’t you?” Daud said, soft, and then he stood. He paced forwards before Corvo could worry, supple and shadow in the fire’s glow, and twisted to lean a hip on the arm of Corvo’s chair, light like he wasn’t sure of his welcome.

“Daud,” Corvo said, trying not to let his own hope sweep him off. “If you need time to think—”

“Do I look like I need more time?” Daud said. It was almost a challenge, but his expression was far closer to fond than aggressive.

“I don’t want you just giving me the answers I want to hear.” Corvo admitted finally. He felt that it needed to be said at least once, though it came out more patronizing than he’d intended, and Daud gave him a sharp look for it.

“I don’t think that’s something I’ve ever been accused of,” he said, which seemed true enough. Then he sighed and shifted almost uncomfortably. “I would never have dared to offer, but this isn’t the first time I’ve considered the _idea_ , Corvo.”

Oh. Well. That was comforting, actually.

“Oh, _really?”_ He tried, arch, and he took the chance to turn farther towards Daud, to reach out and curl a gentle hand over his knee. “Dare I ask what you might have been imagining at the time—”

Daud’s hand on his face cut off his teasing before it could truly start, his voice catching as soft leather brushed down his cheek and curled under his chin.

Corvo was warm from the whiskey and the heat of the fire; the gentle light blurred the planes of Daud’s face into highlights and deeper shadows, and the glimmer of seal-dark eyes. He couldn’t stop the leaping of his heart, or the burgeoning glow of happiness in his belly, and he leaned into Daud’s hand, almost breathless.

“Don’t push your luck, Attano,” Daud murmured, but he was leaning in as he did so, slow and clear, and Corvo rose up in turn to meet him.

* * *

 

Very little seemed to change, on the surface, with so much of their work and downtime already intersected. But new and entirely welcome, Corvo found, was the permission—the _invitation_ —to touch.

Small things really: a hand on the shoulder or back of the neck, a quick, quiet embrace in the midst of a chaotic day. The chance to sit and lean together during those late night talks, a comfort in human touch that Corvo hadn’t realized he’d been missing quite so much.

It took some getting used to; Corvo knew he’d never been the most demonstrative person himself, and certainly Daud did not present himself as the most welcoming either. But with the man’s initial misgivings apparently quelled, the assassin seemed to have no issue taking advantage.

The closeness seemed to come easier than Corvo had hoped for, bolstered after their previous years of patience and effort. Not that it was always easy—it was impossible _not_ to have misgivings, sometimes, but Corvo forced hiself to keep an iron grasp on his tongue when the days were hard or his temper short, to walk away if he needed time rather than snap.

Difficult, sometimes, but very necessary. They had the potential to do such _damage_ to each other with only a few careless words, especially now.

At least they had those years of the same practice to lean on, an established habit of careful communication. And as Daud seemed to be making the same efforts towards restraint, Corvo was fairly confident that they’d manage themselves well enough.

One thing they hadn’t really discussed was the necessity of keeping such things out of the public eye. They were both private by nature, and had no desire to give the Abbey any more ammunition, considering the already... _tense_ relations there. But then, he and Jessamine had thought to do the same, Corvo acknowledged ruefully. His desires didn’t really seem to matter in these cases.

“My men had a bet going.” Daud confirmed one night, visibly disgruntled. He pressed his fingers deeper into Corvo’s neck muscles, chasing a stubborn sore spot, and Corvo shifted against him, stifling any noises. “No wonder they’ve been so smug lately. I suspect Rulfio started it, but the bastard’s been avoiding me.”

“Probably worried you’ll throw him out a window.” Corvo predicted, breaking his words in the middle with a yawn.

“I would, too.” Daud muttered, as though such a thing was a credible threat of harm when his men regularly tossed _themselves_ off of buildings with abandon.

Corvo had hopes that the courtiers would take far longer to pick up any gossip, but he’d never had much expectation that they’d fool the Whalers. With Corvo spending so many nights at the lighthouse, and Daud likewise spending far more time in the Tower, there’d never been any chance.

Another surprise, that: Corvo had considered that a past assassin simply might not be comfortable falling alseep next to someone else, but Daud had outright _asked_ to stay, the first time, and now seemed to take his presence as a given. A comfort, even.

For all that Daud seemed to enjoy having a bed partner, though...

“Are you certain you’re comfortable with all this?” Corvo finally asked one night, after the thought had lingered long enough in his mind to approach a certainty.

“With what?” Daud asked, shifting his head from where he’d had his cheek pressed against Corvo’s flank. His quizzical expression only deepened when Corvo waved a hand down at their bare skin, still a little flushed and sweaty. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve never said no,” Corvo tried, keeping his head pillowed on his arms, unaggressive, “but you’ve never _approached_ me for sex either. It just...doesn’t seem like something you much care to do unless I _ask_ for it.”

Luckily, Daud didn’t seem put off by the line of questioning. He propped his chin on Corvo’s hip and appeared to think it over for a moment.

“I never did care much for it, really.” He agreed finally, with a lazy shrug. “Never understood what all the fuss was about.”

He seemed to catch Corvo’s shift in mood and leaned on him harder, scowl only vaguely irritated. “Relax, would you? If I had a problem with it, I’d say something.”

“But if it’s not something you enjoy—” Corvo prodded, and then twitched as Daud nipped the tender skin at the inside of his hipbone.

“It’s pleasant enough,” Daud disagreed, a sly smile curling the corners of his mouth as he slipped a hand up Corvo’s thigh, “and I do enjoy all the ways it makes you squirm…”

“I appreciate the enthusiam,” Corvo huffed against Daud’s spine, afterwards.

“Hmm,” Daud twisted over to face him with a satisfied noise. “Told you so.”

Then he nudged Corvo onto his back and settled half on top of him, one arm slung over the curve of his ribs and his nose tucked into the curve of his neck. Corvo wondered suddenly if his sense of smell was stronger even as a human.

“This is the part _I_ enjoy most, anyway,” Daud admitted sleeply, and Corvo smiled as he closed his own eyes, a helpless flare of affection lighting beneath his skin.

“Well, I think I can manage that much,” he murmured, and curled an arm around Daud to sleep.

* * *

 

 _"Corvo."_  
  
A hand shook him awake and he blinked up through the gloom of deep night, picking out Daud's broad face in the darkness. "Wha' is it?  
  
"Come on, get up." Daud said, voice still low even though they were the only ones in the room. "I want to show you something."  
  
"It can't wait until morning?" Corvo demanded, but he was already levering himself out of bed because Daud was nearly vibrating with energy.

He'd have gone for armor, knowing Daud's proclivities, but the man tipped some bonechams onto the bed for him. They were the usual ones Corvo had collected for swimming—speed and sight, warmth and breath—and Corvo changed directions with a sigh. "Something in the water?"  
  
"It's a surprise." Daud grinned at him, the points of his teeth just barely glinting.  
  
They slipped past the palace doors and guards with ease. They didn't _really_ need to, but it wasn't particularly difficult for them, and Daud already had his pelt bundled in his arms, requiring more caution than usual. (That also meant this had been planned, and Corvo's interest only increased.)  
  
Daud was out of clothes and into fur almost as soon as they hit the shoreline and he bobbed excitedly in the water as he waited for Corvo to join him. Corvo glanced back once, picked the unmistakable flicker of a Whaler's silhouette out of the shadows, and gave into the urging.  
  
Daud clearly had a destination in mind; rather than leaving Corvo to follow behind him, he nudged at his arms until he'd looped them around the seal's neck and then dove off, moving at a speed Corvo wouldn't have been able to match.

He'd not done this often, but it was always an exhilarating experience, to feel the water flashing by with each powerful flex of Daud's body, slicing beneath the waves and bobbing up to the surface when Corvo tapped his fingers to Daud's chest for air.  
  
They'd long passed the lighthouse and the river's mouth by the time Daud slowed, far out into the ocean surrounding Gristol where the waters were clearer. The last time Corvo had been out this far, he'd been leaving Dunwall entirely, but Daud showed no signs of tiring and so Corvo chose not to worry about the receding shoreline.  
  
There was a shiver rising in his bones the further out they went, reminding him inescapably of the river's song he'd heard in the rowboat, and the flow of power tucked into Daud's fur.  
  
The selkie finally stopped, bobbing almost upright in place, and twisted to meet his eyes. He drew in two deep, heaving breaths, as clear a hint as could be, and Corvo followed suit. Then they were under the water again and spiraling down, his ears popping, the water growing darker and colder where the light of the moon began to dim.  
  
The hum wasn't in his bones, not really—it throbbed in his ears now too, vibrating through the muffling water around him. It was deeper than he had realized, layered and complex, and he strained his ears, struggling to decipher what it was he was hearing.  
  
And then he saw them.  
  
Larger than any being he'd ever seen before, the whales loomed out of the darkness, shadowy behemoths carving a drifting path through the depths with slow, deliberate movements. He counted four, five, perhaps more beyond them, but Daud had sunk them into the middle of them now, and all he could sense was the _singing_.  
  
The hum was so low he almost felt more than he heard, a deep, aching throb that rose and fell in an unknown melody. Some of the sounds pitched higher in counterpoint, twisting into clicks or rising in unearthly, haunting shrieks, but they came back into line as the song continued, falling back in with each other as easy as breathing.  
  
Awe prickled the skin of his spine, shivering in chills across his neck and trying to steal what little breath he had. He kept his mouth resolutely closed, but he couldn't stop his heart from bounding, trying to match a beat it couldn't truly find as it reverberated endlessly through him.  
  
He hung in the water and watched them, eyes blurred with water and darkness, his mind blissfully blank.  
  
Corvo wasn't sure how long they stayed. Daud brought him up for air when he needed, when even the charms couldn't hold him. After the second time they dove back down, though, the selkie began to sing _back_. He was higher pitched by several octaves, and more inclined towards whistles and clicks, but his longer notes matched to theirs, eerie and piercing where theirs rumbled low.  
  
It shouldn't have worked together, but it did, merging in Corvo's ears until it rang as one cohesive song, a cacophony of sound that he knew he would never be able to forget.  
  
The whales' song grew even slower and gentler when finally they parted ways, and Corvo could almost imagine it was a farewell. Perhaps it was. Daud's song didn't falter, though, even as the whales drifted back into shadows and the song receded back into that distant hum.  
  
Corvo curled his arms tighter around Daud’s neck, felt the vibration of the echoing calls through his arms and chest where they stayed pressed together. Daud spiraled slowly upwards, chirping and humming in rolling waves of sound, and Corvo closed his eyes and let it fill his ears until he could hear nothing else.

He was no closer to understanding it than he had been before, but he was struck by the inescapable suspicion that this song was meant for _him_.

Breaking the surface this time felt like breaking the spell entirely; he flicked his hair back out of his eyes and tried not to gasp in the chilled air. Daud’s whiskered nose poked out of the water next to him and then bobbed, twisted, shifted, leaving a man in the water with him once more.

Corvo stared at him—at the wrap of his pelt beneath the water billowing and curling around his limbs, at the dark, fey gleam of his eyes, at the delighted, hopeful earnestness of his grin. He could see now why the old sailors might have warned of temptation.

“You—” he started, and then cut himself off. His own voice felt wrong here: too rough, too abrupt.

He reached out instead, curled a hand in the drifting pelt to pull Daud in—marveled, still, at the trust it had to take for Daud to allow it so easily. The man’s lips were chilled, heavy with salt, but they warmed quickly beneath Corvo’s own and he pressed in as close as he could while staying afloat, trying to convey the tangled snarl of emotion aching in his chest that Daud’s song had seemed to express so simply.

Daud’s breath was warm on his face when they finally drew back, his smile deeper and his rough voice soft. “They liked you, I think.”

It was ridiculous, how his eyes wanted to sting at that. Probably the salt.

“Likewise.” He rasped, and leaned his forehead against Daud’s, brushing together as they floated in the gentle, endless waves. “Likewise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and I randomly found a rather nice selkie song - "Grey Stone" by Emily Portman.  
> and maybe no one's interested, but...related subject matter and all?


	19. that may not be denied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Corvo shifts a little when he slips into the bed beside him, but the other man is used to Daud in varying stages of damp after all these years and doesn’t bother fussing at the water droplets from his hair._

Night has fallen fully when Daud finally returns to the Tower.

Corvo shifts a little when he slips into the bed beside him, but the other man is used to Daud in varying stages of damp after all these years and doesn’t bother fussing at the water droplets from his hair. Daud buries his face in the nape of Corvo’s neck for a moment and sighs.

“What kept you?” Corvo mumbles, blurred and half asleep, but aware enough to know that something’s wrong.

“Was listening to some deckhands,” he says, “just in from Karnaca.”

Corvo shifts over, finally, the movement just as reluctant as Daud feels. “It’s getting worse?”

“I don’t see how Luca himself could _be_ much worse.” Daud points out. “I thought you were going to talk to Emily about that.”

“I did.”Corvo grumbles. “She says she’s working on it, but that the politics of it are complicated. I’ll try again.”

“The longer she takes, the less support she’ll have over there.” Daud reminds him, but Corvo just gives him a look.

“That’s not what’s bothering you.”

“No,” Daud admits after a moment. “No one seemed to want to speak outright, but...there were whispers. Something _else_ is going on.”

Barely whispers, too, and difficult to piece together just from eavesdropping. Grand manor houses falling to ruin overnight. Strange women, foreigners, that no one manages to see for more than a moment. Luca Abele’s strange new habits, not quite in keeping with his old ones.

Hard to pick out truth from rumor, especially with much of Serkonos in such poor circumstances already. But something about it makes Daud _very_ uneasy.

Corvo seems to notice; his hand finds Daud’s mark, presses at his fingers until he loosens his fist. “Think the Outsider’s poking his nose in?”

“Hard to say.” Daud shrugs. He doesn’t have nearly enough information, and that’s never good. “Could be someone else causing trouble. Could just be nothing at all. I’m going to send a few men over, though, see what they can dig up.”

“Good idea.” Corvo approves. “They can pick up more of Luca’s misdeeds for Emily, if nothing else. Send them by me before they leave.”

“I’ll start in the morning,” Daud decrees, and burrows further beneath the blankets, tucking Corvo against him. His hair has finally started to dry.

“We’ll handle it, whatever it is.” Corvo yawns into his neck, comforting in his confidence. Daud smiles in amusement and presses his lips to the other man’s forehead.

He has no doubts that they will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Finally one of my chapter stories is done. 
> 
> Ahem - a huge thank you to emeraldonyxdragon for stepping in and beta reading a large portion of the chapters of this story. I very much appreciate your help!
> 
> And a gigantic thank you to everyone who commented and gave kudos for this story! You gave me life and inspiration.


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